


one more night like this would put me six feet under

by jukeboxgraduate



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Established Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Pre-Canon, brief mentions of hosea in drag, friends to lovers to divorcees, somewhat period-typical navigation of identity, variously successful attempts at parenting, you heard it here first (sort of), young van der linde gang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 84,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25101658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jukeboxgraduate/pseuds/jukeboxgraduate
Summary: To be alongside the same person week after week, to share honesty and trust with someone day after day, is a rare treasure in a life that hinges on dishonesty. Hosea holds it close to his heart.First chapter can operate as a oneshot. Check out the notes for more info about everything (spoiler warnings, etc).
Relationships: Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 67
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is gonna contain some game spoilers throughout but i'll disclaim them accordingly in chapter notes. this chapter is safe for everybody.
> 
> i'm a sucker for canon compliance so i overthought a lot of this. i change a few very minor things for other characters. the biggest divergence i should mention off the bat is that bessie is not going to be here at all.
> 
> obligatory shoutouts to eric for horse names, terran and kelsey for being themselves, and mike.
> 
> title from gram parsons's "kiss the children."
> 
> IF YOU'RE RE-READING and things are slightly different it's because i've been making some very minor tweaks here and there just to polish things up.

1874

The boy can't be more than four or five, looking up at Hosea with dark-rimmed eyes in a tired face in the evening light. His mother is still talking to Hosea quietly, having called him over as he walked down the street, and Hosea nods along to her humble drawl - something about getting away from a long-drunken husband but not having a cent or anywhere to go until morning - but he doesn’t look at her for more than a second. The boy, suddenly aware of Hosea’s concerned gaze, steps partway behind his mother’s too-worn skirt.

“I was just wondering if you could spare some money,” she says, her voice shaking slightly. Hosea is without a dime himself - for the first time in a long time - and he thinks regretfully of the extra box of cigarettes he bought three days ago that still sits in his pocket. 

“I could get you some food, sure,” Hosea says softly, finally looking at the woman. Her eyes are similarly dark, her face similarly tired.

“Please don’t go to any trouble,” she says. 

“It’s no trouble, honest. I’m as hard up as you but I’ll find you something. You’ll be here?” Hosea asks. She nods.

“Right here.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Hosea says. He pushes himself up off the ground and gives the boy what he hopes is some kind of reassuring nod, though his own stomach is growling and he’s lost as to how he’ll find her anything as it is. 

It would be easy enough to take something from the general store if he hadn’t exhausted it the day before, caught stealing food in a shamefully sloppy moment. Hunting has been too scarce this close to town, and the fish in the nearby river are all too small. 

He makes his way through town, leading his horse down the half-muddy street to the cluster of campfires and tents outside of town. He’ll figure something out, he tells himself, he always does. Find some fool too drunk to notice him lightening a purse or pocketing some food.

He hitches his horse at a post away from the campfires.

“Good girl, Hardtack. I’ll be back, just you wait,” he tells her, patting her tawny neck.

He starts walking through the scattered tents and campfires and bedrolls, eyes ahead as if he knows where he’s going. 

“Hey there,” a voice comes from behind him. Hosea stops and turns, meeting the dark eyes of a young man who seems well-dressed enough to be easily fooled. Hosea glances around the fire where the man sits alone, catches sight of a few cans peeking out of a burlap sack. “Need a place to rest your legs?"

“Do you mind?” Hosea asks. 

“Not at all. Take a seat, my friend,” he says in an undulating voice. “What’s a fire for if not sharing? You look like you’ve been on the run all day."

“Thank you,” Hosea crouches down at the fire and extends a hand in introduction. “Alfred Lafond.”

“Aiden O'Malley,” the man says, with the confident deliberation of an alias, and shakes his hand in a firm but unchallenging grip. At eye level he looks smarter and younger than Hosea had first thought - maybe the wrong mark for this, maybe too cunning to steal from.

“Proud to know you,” Hosea says. Aiden looks Hosea over, clearly detecting something but Hosea isn’t quite sure what, and Hosea studies him back. Aiden appears to be more of a boy than a man, having yet to grow into his face entirely. He's handsome in some peculiar way, with a long face that slopes like a catamount’s. He’s well-groomed but just deliberately disheveled enough that he doesn't pass as a gentleman, dark hair too loose and too long, a curl hanging over his forehead from a widow’s peak.

Curiosity plays across his face when he meets Hosea’s eyes again. Maybe Hosea has a chance after all, if Aiden stays distracted. If Hosea plays his cards right, he thinks, he can scoop up the cans and be on his way before Aiden can realize anything.

Hosea looks down at a book lying open on its pages at Aiden's side.

“Do you read?” Aiden asks, following Hosea’s eyes. Hosea glances him over once more, the woman and her son nearly forgotten, preoccupied with the challenge of robbing this man. 

“I do,” Hosea says, and thinks carefully. “Miller, Emerson, Whitman. Anything I can get my hands on, really, you know how it is." 

“Ah,” Aiden sighs, “Mister Miller can certainly strike some chords in the American soul.” Aiden’s eyes are glittering, a look of interest Hosea is all too familiar with - his job will be easy.

“Indeed he can! Very few men seem to _fully_ appreciate him," Hosea says, contentedly one of them. 

“It’s a shame,” Aiden says, and leans back on one hand.

Hosea moves closer to him, carries on talking about the value of prose. Aiden holds his eyes, looks intrigued, maybe too intrigued, gladly chatting along. He seems distracted enough from his won words, watching Hosea’s face intently with a smile threatening the corner of his mouth. Hosea waits, keeps the conversation going until Aiden takes the reins and gets to rambling about the meaning of America. Hosea sits back, slips one can of food into his jacket pocket, but Aiden’s eyes don’t move from his face. Aiden slows his talking, stops, puts one hand on Hosea’s knee and Hosea raises his eyebrows.

“Tell me, _Alfred_ , do you take me for a fool?”

“Of course not - “

“Then why are you trying to rob me?” Aiden asks, his voice lowering. His fingers lightly rest on his pistol. Hosea’s stomach jumps but he holds Aiden's eyes, doesn’t release the grip on the can he holds. Aiden’s dark eyes anticipate something, but Hosea can’t tell what it may be.

Hosea inhales, decides to take a hopeful chance on Aiden being a man who values honesty.

“There’s a woman with a boy, and no food, no money. I’m penniless myself.”

“You’ve done nothing but lie to me since you sat down here at my campfire,” Aiden says. 

“I don't lie about children,” Hosea says. Aiden doesn’t move his hand from his pistol but his eyes do soften.

“Where is she?” Aiden asks.

“In town. Waiting at the church."

Aiden watches his face with some suspicion. He moves and Hosea jumps slightly, tries to hide his alarm, but Aiden only turns and scoops up the sack full of food, stuffs his book into his satchel, and stands up. 

“Lead the way, my friend,” Aiden says. Hosea picks himself up. Aiden is shorter than Hosea expected, but still meeting his eyes. Hosea nods and starts walking, leading Aiden to where he left the woman near the church at the edge of town. He explains the woman’s situation quietly - running away from a drunken husband with only her boy. Aiden nods along as Hosea talks. As the church falls into their vision, Hosea changes the conversation.

“I do read, by the way” Hosea says. Aiden raises an eyebrow at him. “Just not poetry. Or Miller.”

“No?”

“I find him a touch too romantic,” Hosea says. 

“That’s his beauty! He finds romance in the rawness of the country, something that’s quickly vanishing - “ Aiden is cut off as the woman sees them coming up the street and waves to Hosea.

The boy is sitting on a rock outside the church fence. Hosea offers him a smile as he approaches the woman, holding out the can from his pocket and pressing it into her hands. Aiden offers her the rest of his food, piling it in her arms.

She thanks them profusely, over and over, her eyes glittering as she looks between them, and turns back to her son. Hosea watches them a moment and turns to Aiden, only to find him already walking back down the street. Hosea takes a few quick steps and catches up to him.

“Thank you,” Hosea says. Aiden looks at him with surprise, glances over his shoulder.

“My pleasure. It’s only right,” he says. He sticks out his hand again for a handshake. “Dutch van der Linde.”

Hosea laughs, shakes his hand in a more sincere handshake than the last. 

“Suits you much better than Aiden O’Malley. Hosea Matthews.”

“Proud to know you, Hosea Matthews,” Dutch says, releasing Hosea’s hand. “Where are you staying?”

“Nowhere. Well, wherever I can find a place to lay my head.”

“Well, you are more than welcome to share my fire, Mister Matthews,” Dutch says. Hosea studies him a moment, laughs, claps him on the arm. 

"Thank you, Mister van der Linde," Hosea says, mirroring the theatrics of Dutch’s tone and earning a rumbling chuckle in return. 

“Of course. You, my friend, are all that this country has lost. Living free, caring for a fellow man when it's needed. The way it should be. That's just how I plan to live.”

“Is it now?”

“Do you not believe me?”

“I have no reason not to,” Hosea says.

They begin ambling back to Dutch's fire, talking with familiarity that would make Hosea suspicious from anyone else, though from Dutch it feels natural enough that Hosea simply accepts it.

"How'd you get all the way out here to Toledo?" Dutch asks. 

"I've been coming down from Detroit. I heard word some time back that it was a new blossoming-yet-lawless frontier city, horse racing and theater and balls and such. You read the papers, I’m sure. Thought I'd go on up and see what it had to offer a man like me."

“It had nothing to offer, I take it?"

"Oh, it had plenty to offer. And it probably had even more to offer before the war. But it just ain't a place for people who have nothing to offer to it in return, and I certainly didn’t. And the winter is hard. I didn’t quite feel like braving that."

Dutch hums in understanding. 

Returning to Dutch's fire, Hosea settles against a log. His stomach growls painfully and he takes a long sip from his canteen to quiet it. Dutch sits down near him, watching him with a smugness that strikes Hosea as being something inherent to his character.

“Where were you born?” Dutch asks.

“Out east. In the mountains, not even sure what state, really."

"I was born in Philadelphia," Dutch says, and Hosea resists a scoff at how characteristic it already seems, "I've been moving this way for the last five or six years.I’m heading west, to live in this country the way it was meant to be lived in. This country has gotten lost, but out there, well, it’s as it was meant to be.” Hosea bites his tongue, lets him relish in his idealism that he seems so proud of. 

Hosea digs his cigarettes out of his pocket and wordlessly offers one to Dutch. Dutch takes it and thanks him. Hosea fishes for his lighter, finding his pockets empty. He pats the ground around him, finds nothing. He looks up at Dutch.

"Everything okay, friend?" Dutch asks, a smile curling in his voice. Hosea’s eyes narrow.

"You took my lighter," Hosea says, trying to temper his incredulous tone. 

"Oh,” Dutch’s mouth quirks up.

"You _robbed_ me," Hosea holds out his hand for it. Dutch takes it from his own pocket and places it gently in Hosea's palm. Hosea ignites it, holds it out for Dutch to light the cigarette hanging from his mouth. Dutch’s hands are warm where they touch his.

“You can't say you're not impressed," Dutch says around his cigarette, leaning back against the log and exhaling a stream of smoke. Hosea lights his own cigarette, sighs the smoke from his nose. 

"I surely can't," Hosea admits. 

"I'm impressed as well. You don't seem like an easy man to rob. And yet…” Dutch laughs to himself. Hosea rolls his eyes and settles back against the log. Of all the fools he’s met on the road, Dutch is something special. 

They talk through the night, about themselves, about America, about their work. Dutch is enthralled by Hosea’s stories, a look of thoughtful longing softening his unusual features. It’s easy conversation, flowing naturally and unceasingly. 

Dutch is hung up on a war he was born into, speaks often of his father who he never knew. Hosea shares enough - about his own parents, his own life on the run to and from things he doesn’t rightly recognize - to make himself nervous about the prospect of regretting it.

They doze off off - against Hosea’s better judgment - mid-conversation a few hours before the eastern sky begins to lighten. 

Hosea wakes up as the sun is inching over the trees and finds the fire low and Dutch snoring softly under his hat, arms folded over his chest. Hosea gets up and dusts himself off, checks his pockets and finds all his belongings in their places.

He looks over Dutch’s sleeping form once, feels a nervous sensation at the bottom of his spine that briefly shakes his shoulders - someone walking over his grave, his mother would have said. He blinks it away and turns to go to his horse. 

“Going so soon?” Dutch’s voice comes from behind him. Hosea stops, turns back around. “Gimme a few minutes. I’ll buy you breakfast."

They share a meager breakfast and Hosea tries not to let his hunger show, though he knows by Dutch’s gaze that he can sense it. Hosea would feel humiliated by it, by having his meal paid for by a man he’d just tried to rob, but he’s hungry and despite Dutch’s watchful eye he doesn’t seem to care.

Dutch mentions, as he counts his coins to pay, that he knows of a local businessman who goes for a shave at the same time each day, just asking to have his pockets lightened. He offers to share half the take if Hosea accompanies him, holds out his hand for a handshake. Hosea takes it, and Dutch holds his eyes as firmly as his hand.

They stay in town a few days making easy money with their cheating and robbing, finding shameless fun it. Dutch decides one night that it’s time for him to move on, announcing it as if he expects Hosea to join him. 

Hosea realizes with a small shock that it had never really been a question, not as far as he was concerned. He had not considered that Dutch would leave, or that he himself would leave, either. For days Hosea had hardly thought of the future, let alone the next week or the next day, and he had been content with it. It only makes sense to carry on.

So in the morning, without a word, Hosea and Dutch saddle up and fall into step together on the road. 

“Where to?” Dutch asks. Hosea shrugs. “Then we’ll see where the road takes us.” 

+++

Together they bounce from town to town, picking pockets, spinning yarns for money, cheating at any card games they come across. They split their loot in half, sharing one half and slipping the rest into the hands of street children, of laboring men, of working women. 

Dutch’s surprise at their success tells Hosea that, for all Dutch’s talk, he’s doing better now than he was before. Dutch is a good conman with a head full of plans, and Hosea imagines that he himself is enough of a worrier to make Dutch’s plans foolproof. 

Dutch’s favorite of Hosea’s many routines is Hosea’s flirting and luring rich older men into alleys and back halls and dark inn rooms and returning with a handful of jewelry and cash and often - most impressively to Dutch - almost entirely untouched. Hosea had always been good at it - lowering their guards and getting close enough to lighten their pockets, acting quickly enough to dash off and disappear before they could catch up to him. 

It’s gotten easier with Dutch, though, and Dutch is clearly delighted by it. He provides a measure of safety, being quick with a gun and lingering around corners should something go wrong. Dutch is frightening when he wants to be, stocky enough to be imposing despite his peculiarities. They develop a routine, something almost scripted, in which Hosea flirts some well-off, dissatisfied man into the shadows, teases him just long enough to pick his pockets, only for Dutch to barge around a corner and act scandalized, sending them both running.

Hosea would feel sorry about it, about instilling a terror so familiar to himself, but the remorse disappears when he unloads his pockets and remembers that these men live lives far more dishonest than his own.

“Your charms are simply immeasurable, Hosea,” Dutch laughs as Hosea spreads his loot between them - a heavy purse, a ring, a chain. They’ll sell the jewelry in the next town, split the money here.

“Maybe so,” Hosea says. Dutch knocks his hand against Hosea’s knees and leans back, lighting a cigarette. "I have to make the most of it before I get too old." 

"You're not that old, friend," Dutch says around his cigarette.

"If you were my age you wouldn't be so quick to say that," Hosea says. Dutch passes him the cigarette, resting his hand against Hosea's lazily until Hosea takes the cigarette from his fingers. 

“What were you doing before all this?” Dutch asks.

“Same thing. Stealing for the hell of it. Rambling around. Before that I was on the stage a bit, did what I could with that, had some routines and all. You know. But it just wasn’t working.”

“The stage, huh? Imagine that. What’d you do?” Dutch asks, the amusement bubbling in his voice. 

“I was hardly on real stages. Mostly saloons, you know the drill. I took myself for some sort of comedian,” Hosea says. Dutch lets out a low, wheezing laugh.

“You?”

“Oh yes. I got up to quite a bit back then,” Hosea says.

“What was your routine?” Dutch prods, as if he can smell that the story is deeper. Hosea looks at Dutch, a cigarette dangling from his smiling mouth. Hosea has no reason to keep secrets, but Dutch needs to be baited along sometimes, the way a dog needs to chase birds.

“Impersonation, mostly,” Hosea says. Dutch laughs, takes the cigarette from his mouth as he sits up. 

“Oh, what, in gowns and all?” 

“Naturally.”

Dutch looks at Hosea, appraises him with his dark eyes twinkling, and chuckles to himself. 

“I’m sure you wore it well,” Dutch says. “Lord, I wish I could’ve seen that.”

“I’m sure you do,” Hosea says. "Many envy those who experienced the great Hester Matthews, and rightfully so." 

Dutch laughs aloud, dropping his hand against Hosea's leg. Hosea ignores it.

“Hester. How tantalizing,” Dutch drawls. 

“Sure."

"How thrilling you must have been, Hosea,” Dutch laughs again, another round of rumbling amusement. Hosea moves to hit him gently on the chest but Dutch catches his hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. _Hester_.” Dutch moves to theatrically kiss his knuckles, and Hosea pulls his hand away and lightly smacks him on the nose. 

"You're quite a character yourself, Dutch," Hosea says. 

"Oh, I know that, Hosea."

+++

Hosea quickly learns how Dutch likes his coffee, how to recognize his emotions miles before they’re expressed, how to work the worst knots from Dutch’s shoulders. He remembers the favorite treats of Dutch’s dark chestnut mare, Beatrice, and the sounds of her hooves on the road. He comes to know the sound of Dutch's breathing and his boots and his rare silences like he knows birdsongs. 

In return Dutch is openly amused by Hosea’s convictions, jokes that working with a Quaker is a liability he accepts, expresses undying admiration for Hosea’s skills in swindling and for his dedication to shaving his face every day. Dutch knows to wake Hosea when he starts coughing and wheezing, knows that warm drinks ease the rattling of Hosea’s lungs brought on by cold weather. He brings Hosea cans of peaches when he finds them, brings him mystery novels and newspapers, picks up the dime novels he teases Hosea for finding guilty pleasure in reading. 

They work well together, more cohesively than Hosea has worked with anyone before. Dutch lays out his grandiose plans between them, and Hosea brings him information, pokes holes in his plans, questions them, fine tunes them, stitches them together where Dutch has placed the pieces. It comes as naturally as a change in season, something nearly scripted - Dutch presents his plans, Hosea points out the missing pieces, they argue into the night until one of them gives in.

Being with Dutch comes so easily that Hosea could nearly forget that he ever lived differently. Hosea is still unsure of where he's going and what awaits him - there’s a wide open country waiting for them, with beasts of fate more monstrous than the dragons of the west he had been told about as a child - but a map is laid out before him now, between the two of them, and for the first time, Hosea feels as if every step he’s taken has brought him to where he's meant to be. Things with Dutch make sense, and that’s more than Hosea has ever had. 

Dutch may be ambitious and idealistic to the point of being near crazy, but it's nothing Hosea can't handle and he loves every moment of it. To be alongside the same person week after week, to share honesty and trust with someone day after day, is a rare treasure in a life that hinges on dishonesty. Hosea holds it close to his heart.

Their version of some semblance of domesticity becomes their most beloved joke - sharing blankets and bedrolls and warmth, clothes and food and money and books. They bicker over nothing to pass the time, Dutch agonizing over Hosea being so stubbornly unbothered, Hosea playing along with Dutch’s rants to see just how riled Dutch can get. Their conversations amble often into some easy act of imagination, parodying normal people and their lives and inclinations. The _my dear_ s they exchange in play slip out of their games and into their conversations, each one more sincere than the last.

They don’t come to anything together, try as Dutch might. He makes his passive advances in the midst of everything, and Hosea rejects them just as passively, and it becomes another part of the game they play. If it had started physically, it would be different, Hosea thinks. 

Hosea has never liked getting involved with the men he runs with - it makes it too hard to get away with things inevitably go bad. He suspects - with some apprehension - and he’s sure that Dutch can sense it as well, that he’s already involved enough. 

+++

“Hosea, my dear,” Dutch says, settling into his place at their fire one night, “you are just about the best thing a man could find in a place like Ohio.” 

Hosea rolls his eyes. It’s not the first time Dutch has said it, and it won’t be the last. 

“I mean that, Hosea,” Dutch says, his voice lightly scolding.

“Oh, I know, Dutch. Fool that you are."

Dutch laughs, shoves at him lightly, and Hosea shoves back. 

+++

Hosea watches Dutch where he leans at the bar, talking to some soft-faced red-haired man with a laborer’s body and half a gentleman’s clothes. He’s handsome, certainly interested by the way he watches Dutch’s face, but he stays stiff and guarded. Hosea wonders if Dutch notices it.

Dutch’s judgment of men and women is often obscured by his motives, Hosea has found, and Hosea pays extra attention to Dutch’s pursuits of men in saloons because of it. Dutch's otherwise godly judge of character falls away when confronted with desperation of any kind. 

Dutch makes some small move, something Hosea can hardly identify before the man’s face shifts and he gives Dutch a hard shove, swings at his face. Hosea is out of his seat, across the room, and pulling Dutch away before Dutch can muster a punch of his own. The man spits at them both as Dutch blindly and halfheartedly shoves at Hosea, all the eyes of the saloon on them, and Hosea pulls him out the back door, the rush of cool night air a clarifying relief from the muggy saloon.

“I had that handled,” Dutch grumbles as Hosea hauls him down an alley by his elbow. His cheek is split open under his eye, bleeding dark like an oil seep in the moonlight.

“Shut up, Dutch,” Hosea says, tugging him down another alley and around a corner, finally stopping. Dutch sighs and falls to a crouch, leaning against the wall.

Hosea kneels in the mud in the alley behind the saloon, pulls Dutch’s handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the blood from Dutch’s eye with it. Dutch halfheartedly waves him away.

"Can you see?" Hosea asks. Dutch nods. Hosea stands and hauls Dutch up with him. "You gotta to stop getting into that kind of trouble. Fighting doesn’t suit you the way you think it does."

“Well, I'll do my best, Friend," Dutch says.

Hosea rolls his eyes and holds Dutch by his elbow, leading him to their camp just outside of the town and kicking their bedrolls closer together. He takes Dutch’s canteen to a wet rag and holds Dutch’s face by his chin, wiping the blood away from the gash under his eye. 

“It’s truly impressive that you can be such a poor judge of character,” Hosea says.

“And yet I got you right, didn’t I?” 

Hosea sighs, presses his thumb down just so against the swelling of Dutch’s cheekbone. Dutch winces and Hosea huffs a laugh.

“How bad is it?” Dutch asks.

“How bad does it feel?”

“Not terrible. My head does hurt."

“It looks a little worse than not terrible. It’s only a matter of time before somebody hits you right enough to ruin your face,” Hosea says, touching the gouge with his thumb. Dutch winces and leans away. Deserved, Hosea thinks. 

“And wouldn’t that be a shame for you,” Dutch says, lying back on his bedroll, holding his handkerchief against his cheek.

“I’m not particular about your face, Dutch,” Hosea says, taking a drink from his own canteen. He means for it to sound like a jab, but it comes out softer. “Just take care of yourself.”

Dutch laughs sleepily and throws one hand lazily against Hosea’s arm. Hosea pats the back of his hand and rolls over. Dutch starts snoring, his hand and handkerchief falling away from his face. Hosea wipes the blood away once more before he lies back on his own bedroll and closes his eyes. 

“Hosea,” Dutch’s voice comes to Hosea through a haze of sleep. He opens his eyes, the act feeling herculean. “Hosea, hey.”

The lantern comes on with a soft hiss, washing away the darkness. Dutch is leaning over Hosea, eyebrows knitted together, blood drying smeared across his face. Hosea inhales to speak and his chest rattles, squeaking slightly.

"What?" Hosea asks, voice cracking.

"You're wheezing and coughing up a storm,” Dutch says, concern painting his face, “what can I do?"

Hosea sits up and rests his elbows on his knees. The air is thick and cool, wet enough to send Hosea’s chest whistling.

"Nothing, I just need to sit up," Hosea says. His lungs squeak softly again. "Sorry for waking you." 

"Are you alright?" 

"Yes, Dutch," Hosea says. "It's just the air. Probably gonna rain tomorrow. How's your head?" 

"What?"

"Your head, Dutch,” Hosea gestures to his own face.

"Oh. It's fine. Are you sure you're alright?”

“Yeah."

Hosea’s wheezing doesn’t alarm him, not after a lifetime of it, but he can't tell Dutch that.Dutch is still watching him with concern. Hosea yawns, a long squeaky breath. No matter how many times his lungs kick up a fuss, Dutch never seems to get used to it though he says less and less about it. Another night of Dutch watching him nervously is nothing. 

Dutch pats Hosea's knee and gets up, arranging their saddles behind them.

"Here," Dutch says, and Hosea leans back on his saddle to keep himself somewhat upright. Dutch settles in next to him and watches him with dark eyes. 

"You look a mess," Hosea says. Dutch snorts. 

“I thought you weren’t particular about my face, Hosea," Dutch chides. Hosea leans into Dutch and finds Dutch already leaning into him. Dutch rests his head on Hosea’s and Hosea thinks briefly of Dutch's bleeding wound making a mess of his hair, but he doesn’t care. Dutch can peel himself loose in the morning. “Go to sleep.”

“You first.”

Hosea’s lungs are still rattling in the morning. He slips out from under the quilt and folds his half of it over Dutch. He adds wood to the fire, waits for the crackling and popping to rise and drown out the hitch in his breathing, and quietly begins his morning. 

He had accepted as a teen that his lungs would be the death of him. His mother had sent him away because of it. She thought the mountain air was too cold and thin and that he would do better with his father's sister's family closer to civilization. She had tearfully sent him away to his aunt's where he had behaved until he heard that his mother had died and he ran away, barely sixteen. 

Dutch stirs and wakes up wincing while Hosea is shaving, balancing his small shaving mirror on his knee.

“Morning,” Hosea says. Dutch only groans, rolls over on his bedroll and gingerly puts his head in his elbow. “How’s your head?”

“You know how my head is. It hurts,” Dutch grumbles. Hosea bites back a laugh.

“There’s coffee, if you want,” Hosea says. Dutch watches him, trying to gauge something in his voice.

“Do we have sugar?”

“In my bag."

Dutch groans as he sits up. His cheek is still caked in dried blood flaking over his skin and his eye and cheekbone are swelling. He sleepily rifles through Hosea’s saddlebag, sifting sugar into his cup . Hosea finishes shaving, wipes off his face, smooths out his hair. 

“How are you feeling?” Dutch finally asks into his battered cup, the steam billowing around his eyes. 

“Living and breathing," Hosea says.

"Barely. All your whistling and rattling kept me up most of the night."

"Your worrying kept you up. I'm fine.”

“I don’t _worry,_ Hosea,” Dutch says. 

“You do when I’m not the one doing it all for you,” Hosea says. 

Dutch laughs shortly and sips his coffee. He leans forward and pours Hosea a cup. 

“I won’t give you the satisfaction of telling you you’re right.”

“That’s fine, Dutch. No need to tell me what I already know."

+++

Hosea finds plenty of dances in the towns that they pass through, populated by enough passers-through that a couple of wanderers like Dutch and himself can easily go unnoticed, even in the cozy familiarity of frontier towns. They dip into the pockets of finer coats and posture themselves as businessmen, promising returns on investments from the rich men who make their crooked money catering - or not - to the needs of little towns.

Dutch is thrilled by it, thrilled by their success, thrilled by the stories Hosea tells about his past as a ball-goer and half a gentleman as they clean up and dress up for parties and dances.

“What I wouldn’t give to see you in a real ballroom, Hosea,” Dutch says, standing over Hosea’s shoulder to comb his hair in the tiny mirror Hosea is using to shave. 

“You didn’t miss much.”

“Would have even asked you to dance,” Dutch says lightly. Hosea turns to look at him through narrowed eyes.

“You’d step on my shoes. I don’t imagine you know how to be led.” 

“Oh, I’ve done my share of following,” Dutch says, sounding amused with himself. Hosea shakes his head and returns to his reflection. 

“Not much worth taking here,” Dutch says quietly in his ear.

“I’m glad we agree.”

The dance is a simple one on a farm, full of simple people who it wouldn’t be right to rob. Hosea doesn’t mind - the music is pleasant, the air is sweet, and Hosea manages to dance with two young women who seem to want nothing more from him than a dance partner for a song. 

“Come with me,” Dutch says, and lightly tugs at Hosea’s elbow. Hosea squints at him but follows him anyway, out of the barn and around the back of a stable, lit faintly by the light from the barn and the moon above. 

“What do you want, Dutch?” Hosea asks, regretting the tiredness in his voice when Dutch looks at him.

“To dance.”

“No, Dutch. You can’t get anybody else to dance with you?” 

“Hosea,” Dutch holds out a hand. As if planned - and maybe it was, knowing Dutch - some country waltz begins to carry thinly from the barn. “Ain’t nobody around.”

“It ain’t that,” Hosea sighs. Dutch holds his hand out more and Hosea sighs, reaches to take it, pauses. “Do you want to lead?” 

“I don’t care,” Dutch says. Hosea takes his hand in a tired motion and Dutch holds back a grin. 

Hosea steps forward and rests a hand on Dutch’s waist, not willing to give Dutch the satisfaction of convincing him to dance and also letting him lead. Dutch chuckles, and Hosea is sure he knows exactly what Hosea is thinking. 

Dutch follows him well, seems perfectly content with it despite his rusty but obviously practiced movements. 

“You’ve done this before,” Hosea says.

“You say it like you doubted me, Hosea.”

“Never,” Hosea says. They move in silence until the music ends, and Hosea steps away.

“Thank you, Hosea,” Dutch bows slightly. Hosea laughs, bows in return. 

“My pleasure.”

“Was it?” Dutch asks.

“Sure."

+++

Dutch is a better fisher than he is a hunter, which is a testament to almost nothing. He accompanies Hosea fishing more often than he goes fishing on his own, but Hosea hardly minds. He welcomes the company - even if it means nodding along while Dutch talks endlessly, or ignoring him when Dutch falls asleep.

Dutch does become a fisherman in his own right, starts waxing poetic about the moral value of the practice of fishing while Hosea half-listens and shakes his head. Their fishing trips get longer each time, extended into the night by conversations on the banks or while floating in borrowed boats, watching the starry sky curve over their heads and the fish slap at moonlit waters.

“You've finally made a fisherman of yourself, Dutch,” Hosea says one night, over a dinner of fish mostly caught by Dutch - not for lack of trying on Hosea’s part.

“Or you’re just a lucky charm,” Dutch says, elbowing him lightly. 

“You wouldn’t know, you never go fishing alone.”

“Why change what’s already working, dear Hosea?” Dutch grins. Hosea groans, elbows Dutch lightly. Dutch elbows him back and throws an arm around his shoulders, dryly and dramatically kissing his cheek. 

“Enough,” Hosea halfheartedly shrugs him off. Dutch removes his arm and returns to his food, but Hosea can still feel the weight of him like a ghost on his shoulders and his cheek. 

1875

“I have an idea,” Dutch says. Hosea takes a long breath and looks up from his book. “Oh, have some faith in me, Hosea.”

“What’s your idea?” Hosea asks dryly. Dutch has been staring into nothing and pondering something for the last hour and Hosea had been waiting for his thoughts to burst forth into words. 

“I saw some fellers in town selling stock in their company. Canal building, or something. They were bringing in quite a fortune, it looked like.”

“Sure.”

“I reckon we could do the same. We done it before, but that was here and there. If we made something out of it in one place, just long term enough to really get people talking - "

“Selling fake stocks?” Hosea asks. Dutch shakes him by the shoulder. 

“Yes!”

“Fake stocks in what?” Hosea asks. 

“I don’t know. What’s something these folks wouldn’t know much about?”

Hosea thinks for a moment, biting his lips together. It’s ambitious and risky and Hosea is already making a list of his concern. Dutch still has a hand on his shoulder and a glinting confidence in his face, and Hosea swallows a swell of fear when he realizes that Dutch’s confidence is enough for him. 

“A shipping company. From…where’s somewhere far away?”

“France.”

“No, no…you and I, representatives of a shipping company based in Portugal. Bringing only the finest Portuguese goods to America…they wouldn’t know anything about that. But they would be quick to invest, I’m sure. No one here could know anything about Portugal.”

“I don’t,” Dutch says.

“I know. I don’t either,” Hosea says. Dutch grins and shakes him by the arm again. “But they won’t know we don’t know.” 

"We’ll need to start fresh in another town. A bigger one, with more rich people.”

“Sure. Kettering’s about a day away, they’re small enough to be naive and big enough to value the international exotics.”

“You’re an artist, Hosea,” Dutch grins, and ruffles a hand through the back of Hosea’s hair. Hosea leans away from him, reaches over and snaps Dutch's suspender on his shoulder. Dutch looks at him in shocked and amused confusion.

“Don’t do that again,” Hosea says. Dutch scans Hosea for some kind of revenge to exact and resolves to knocking his shoulder into Hosea’s.

Riding to Kettering, they invent their characters and their company, a back-and-forth game of a conversation. They settle into a hotel in character and laugh as Dutch closes the door behind them. They sort out their best clothes and Hosea convinces Dutch to shave, forces a tin of pomade into his hands and shows him how to tame his curls, which he hates, whining that Hosea should help him with it and only earning a glare.

“So, Hosea,” Dutch starts as he finishes dressing their first morning in Kettering, “would you invest in me?”

“I already have,” Hosea says, watching out the window as the street below wakes up.

“Is that all I am? An investment?” Dutch huffs. Hosea turns away from the window and offers Dutch a wink.

“Don’t let me down, Dutch.”

“I wouldn’t dare."

The people of Kettering know even less about both shipping and Portugal than Dutch and Hosea do, and the town’s wealthiest - and most foolish - invest into the hundreds into the Matos Shipping Company, said by their loyal representatives to be on its way to becoming the most profitable international shipping company, bringing unimaginable treasures across the Atlantic. They get into two high class parties within the same week at the invitation of their investors where they manage to secure a few more.

They eat well, sleep well, slip money into the hands of mothers and waitresses and ranch hands. Dutch’s face grows brighter by the day and more talkative by the night. It’s easy for them, and often even fun, and Hosea finds that for possibly the first time he may enjoy being exactly where he is. 

+++

Dutch exchanges his drink for Hosea’s cigarette, a practiced motion with a sloppy performance, laughing as their fingers fumble together and nearly drop everything. The fire crackles low before them where they sit on the ground at their camp that has become home. The sun is setting slowly, painting the sky in the purplish greys of spring. They left their hotel two days ago at Hosea's insistence that it would be wise for them to become harder to find after a month of lying to an entire town. It feels natural to be out on the ground again. 

“Dear Hosea, I think we’ve found our calling,” Dutch says, leaning back on his elbows with the cigarette in his mouth. The air is cooling as the spring night settles in and Hosea can feel Dutch’s warmth against his side without touching him. “How much money we got left?”

“Enough. More than enough. We can give some more away before we get moving."

“Excellent,” Dutch says. The back of his hand rests against Hosea’s arm, passing him back the cigarette, trading it for the bottle. 

"We do need to get moving soon," Hosea says around the cigarette. Dutch grunts his agreement. 

They sit with the crackling dwindling fire, exchanging occasional meaningless comments. A small flock of geese fly overhead somewhere nearby, flying north by night. The fire is low enough that Hosea reckons they'd be warmer in their tent, but Dutch's shoulder is lightly pressed against his arm and it holds him in place. 

Something rustles to Dutch's side in the trees and Hosea starts for his pistol. Dutch holds out a hand as if to stop him. 

"Who's there?" Dutch calls out. 

"Dutch van der Linde?" A voice calls back in an authoritative drawl. 

"Who's asking?" Dutch pats once at Hosea blindly, checking for him as he would for his gun. 

"My name is Sheriff Carmichael. You two are under arrest," a man steps out of the darkness of the trees and gestures for them to stand up. Neither of them move.

"Whatever for?" Dutch asks. 

“You know why,” the sheriff says, “fraud. Embezzling. Now get up. And Hosea Matthews, is it? Get up, on your feet." He waves his gun at them. Dutch slowly moves to get up and Hosea follows him. "I've got men all around here, don't you try anything." 

"You must be mistaken," Dutch says, raising his hands. "We're not criminals, we're simply - "

“Just stop talking," Carmichael says.

Hosea raises his hands, watching Dutch and Carmichael in the low light. Leaves crunch behind them and Hosea feels a rough hand on his wrist and he tensely lowers his hands behind him, letting the cuffs close around his wrists. It’s not worth a fight, they’ve been in binds before and have managed. As the cuffs click shut, Dutch whips his head back to look at Hosea, some well-hidden alarm in his face. Hosea shakes his head slightly. Another man comes up behind Dutch and roughly pulls his hands down, handcuffs clicking shut. 

Carmichael regards them both smugly and walks past them, ducking into their tent behind them. 

Hosea catches Dutch’s eye and Dutch bites his lips, holds back a laugh. Being arrested with Dutch is far preferable to being arrested alone, Hosea thinks. 

Carmichael pushes out of the tent, bouncing a purse in the palm of his hand.

“How a couple of punks like you managed to swindle a town out of three hundred dollars I’ll never understand,” Carmichael says. 

“We was planning to give it back,” Dutch says, and Hosea holds back a laugh at the truth of it. 

“Forgive me for not being more inclined to believe you,” Carmichael says. He nods to a man standing paces away, tells him to take care of the horses. Hosea looks over his shoulder at where their horses are hitched, still saddled. They bounce on their feet nervously as the man approaches them. "Let's go figure out what to do with you boys." 

The sheriff's station is unusually small for such a big town. There are two cells, one occupied by a different drunk or brawler every ten hours, the other occupied by Dutch and Hosea and two wall-hanging cots. Sheriff Carmichael sits at his desk just out of sight of their cell, alternating his shifts with his more apathetic subordinates. Dutch makes a game out of getting a rise out if whoever mans the desk, and in his characteristic way he becomes miraculously friendly with them in the process.

Hosea tells him quietly that his flirting isn't going to get them out of jail, and Dutch insists that it is neither flirting nor an attempt at seducing their way out. 

Over two days they learn the names and temperaments of Kettering's entire law enforcement. Some of them, the younger ones with curiosity in their eyes, are more susceptible to Dutch's charms than others. If anyone could be tricked into letting them out, Hosea whispers again and again, it would be one of them. But Dutch has declared some vendetta against Carmichael for his own amusement. 

Carmichael is a man who is surely younger than he looks. He looks stern and tired but his hair and mustache have hardly begun to go grey. He walks stiffly, like his back is aching. To Hosea's amusement, he is stubbornly immune to Dutch's charms and enormously irritated with Dutch's dramatic complaints and attempts to gain sympathy, grumbling endlessly about his back aching. 

On their third morning, amid the ruckus of changing shifts - highlighted as always by Carmichael's grunting as he stands, Dutch taps Hosea's arm lightly.

"I've got a plan," Dutch whispers.

"Tell me more," Hosea whispers back. 

"This cot is really taking a toll on my back, I must say," Dutch drawls, just a touch too loud. 

"You'd be better off on the floor, I reckon. Better a hard flat surface than whatever that lumpy mess is," Hosea says, sprawled on his cot with his hands behind his head.

"Don't you two ever stop talking?" Sheriff Carmichael's voice comes from where he sits at his desk with his feet up. "Been listenin' to you gripe about your back for too long now."

"Oh, Sheriff, surely you understand my friend's plight. A bad back is a horrible affliction, it interferes with everything. Your work, your sleep, even your cognition," Hosea calls back. 

"You don't hear me complaining," Carmichael says. 

"Oh, but your gait says more than enough," Hosea says. "You carry yourself like a pained man, not one with the authority to carry out the law." 

Dutch's breathing hitches, hiding a laugh.

"What do you know?" Carmichael snaps. 

"Quite a lot! I'm trained in adjusting aching bodies. It's a rare and fading art." 

"I don't believe that for a second," Carmichael says dryly. Hosea hears his newspaper unfold. 

Dutch looks at Hosea, eyes sparkling. Hosea holds up a hand, asking for patience, closing his eyes. They listen to the fire crackle, Carmichael's newspaper pages turning occasionally. After a few pages turn, Hosea opens his eyes, reaches up and taps Dutch's arm lightly. Dutch sits up, the cot creaking and rattling, and grumbles dramatically.

Hosea hears Carmichael's paper flutter down in annoyance, though no boots touch the ground. Dutch stands up and groans. Hosea rises to his feet. 

"Here, my friend, let me help," Hosea says. Dutch flashes him a smile and Hosea lightly smacks his chest. 

"I don't want to trouble you," Dutch says. 

"Please, I insist. I can't let you go on like this," Hosea says. "Just lie down here." 

Dutch lowers himself to the cot again, on his stomach with his head in his arms. Hosea lightly ruffles the back of his hair and Dutch sighs in annoyance, unable to retaliate. 

"Take slow breaths and try to relax," Hosea says, "this won't hurt." 

Hosea glances over his shoulder. Carmichael is still just out of sight, only his boots on the corner of his desk visible. 

Hosea lays his hands on Dutch's shoulders, genuinely working at the knotted muscles between them with his thumbs. The musculature is familiar under his hands, having worked days worth of tension from Dutch’s back a hundred times before. He works the muscles loose with his fingers, pauses, pushes hard on them with the heel of his palm. Something pops and Dutch groans loudly into the crook of his elbow. 

"Feeling better already, I'm sure," Hosea says.

"Like a new man," Dutch grumbles. 

Hosea works his way down Dutch's back, Dutch groaning sincerely with each crack. Hosea grips the back of Dutch's hip and pushes it, feeling something pop under his hand. Dutch grunts abruptly and then lets out a laugh. 

Hosea hears Sheriff Carmichael's boots finally hit the floor and take the precious steps to the cell. Dutch opens one eye to look up at Hosea as Hosea takes his other hip and pushes it, resulting in a similar pop and vocalization from Dutch. He gently massages up Dutch's back again, digging his thumbs into the points that trouble Dutch most. Finally he smooths Dutch's shirt, pats him on the back, and sits down at the edge of the cot. Dutch pulls himself up and stretches. 

"Mister Matthews, you truly work miracles with those hands," Dutch says. "A fading art indeed! Why are you a swindling lowlife like me when you could be changing lives like this?" 

"The gift of comfort is the most fulfilling to give," Hosea says, bowing his head. Dutch claps him on the shoulder. 

"Sheriff Carmichael!" Dutch exclaims, "you really ought to let this fine fellow work on your back. I feel like an entirely new man! Why, I could even be persuaded to change my ways now, with my spirits so high." Dutch rolls his shoulders and takes a dramatic, satisfied breath. 

"No, thank you," Carmichael says stiffly, but his eyes are thoughtful.

"I'd be honored, Sheriff," Hosea says, "I wouldn't dare try anything funny. We're in for cheating, not violence - cowards that we are." 

Dutch nods solemnly. Carmichael narrows his eyes thoughtfully. 

"Come on in, Sheriff, let me do you the only favor I can. You don't even have to let me out, I can do it right here." 

Carmichael studies Hosea and Dutch. He's more broad than both of them, armed with a gun on his hip. 

"Come on in, Sheriff, really," Hosea says, raising his hands, "I insist." 

Carmichael blinks long and hard and sighs, reaches for his keys. Dutch stretches, taps Hosea's back as he lowers his arms and sits down on one of the cots. Carmichael unlocks the cell and steps inside, reaches through the bars to lock it again and puts the keys back in his pocket. 

“No funny business,” Carmichael says firmly. 

“Of course not,” Hosea says, “other sheriffs would’ve hanged us both by now. This is the least I can do for your kindness. Just lie down here.

Carmichael lowers himself to the unoccupied cot, eyeing Hosea warily all the while.

“Please relax, sir,” Hosea gently insists. 

He flattens his hands on Carmichael’s shoulders, feels over the knots below his shoulderblades and the stiffness along his spine. He realizes, feeling the unfamiliarity of Carmichael’s body, how long has passed since he’s touched anyone besides Dutch. Dutch watches him, silently amused. When Hosea digs his thumbs into the knots in an expert motion, Carmichael groans in relief. 

“I don’t know how you live like this every day,” Hosea says, pressing into another stressed muscle with the heel of his palm. 

“It’s hell, if I’m being honest,” Carmichael grunts. 

“Oh, I’m sure,” Hosea says. 

He looks to Dutch, nods once, and Dutch slowly gets up, unfastening his suspenders. Dutch loops the suspenders around Carmichael’s ankles where they hang off the end of the cot. Dutch looks up at Hosea, nods, and Hosea puts his entire weight on Carmichael’s back just as Dutch pulls the suspenders tight and ties them. Hosea pins Carmichael’s hands onto his back and holds him down as he protests incoherently. Dutch pulls Carmichael’s bandana off his neck and stuffs it into his mouth, tugging the cuffs from Carmichael’s belt and fastening them around his straining wrists. 

“Excellent work as always, Mister Matthews,” Dutch praises, clapping Hosea on the back. Hosea fishes through Carmichael’s pockets as he cries through the fabric in his mouth, tossing keys and a small purse to Dutch. “Be careful, Sheriff, or you’ll choke on that.”

Dutch unlocks the cell and Hosea steps out, moving quickly for the desk. He finds their belts hanging on the wall with their hats, throws Dutch’s over his shoulder as he fastens his own, and finds their purses in a drawer amid scattered bills and valuables. He stuffs them all into his pockets and returns to the cell door. Dutch is cutting the clothes from Carmichael’s tied, struggling body. 

“Dutch, is this necessary?” Hosea hardly hides a laugh. He hands Dutch his gun belt and claps him on the arm. “Let’s go.”

“I heard him calling us inverts for the last three days, Hosea, don't act like you ain’t noticed,” Dutch says. Hosea shrugs. “Simple retribution."

“And I reckon this will help our case plenty. Come on, let’s get a move on.”

Dutch tugs off Carmichael’s boots and drops them to the floor. He fastens his gun belt and takes his hat from Hosea’s hands, steps out of the cell, locks it behind him. 

“Best of luck, Sheriff,” Dutch calls over his shoulder as he steps out the back door after Hosea, leaving Carmichael naked in the cell.

The sky is just lightening to purple as they make their way to the small stable behind the station, finding their horses and tack. They saddle up quickly, Hosea apologizing to Hardtack for the absence all the while.

“Shall we?” Dutch asks as they lift themselves into their saddles.

“It’s an honor, Mister van der Linde,” Hosea says. Dutch laughs, and they trot their horses out, moving around the edge of town unseen in the dawn, riding west toward the darkened sky. 

Dutch is giddy, his face flickering wildly in the dappling light of the thicket of trees as they come to a stop. Hosea can only grin and laugh, leaning forward in his saddle to stretch his back. Dutch swings himself down from his lathering horse, stretching and crouching down, rolling his neck. He pats Beatrice’s shoulder and turns to Hosea.

“Stop and take a rest, Hosea,” Dutch says. 

“We should get a ways away from the road first."

Dutch stands up straight, puts his hands on his hips and looks up at Hosea, squinting into the light. Hosea folds his hands on his saddle horn.

“Come down where I can hear you," Dutch challenges him lightly.

Hosea sighs, swings himself down from his horse. He feels sorry for her, the lean palomino heaving under her saddle. They’ve run the horses too far and too hard, though it’s nothing they can’t recover from. 

“We really don’t have far to go. Don’t want the horses to lose their momentum."

“Alright, you’re right,” Dutch says. “Do you have the money?”

“I have that and more, my dear,” Hosea says. He fishes into his jacket pockets, recovers Dutch’s purse and a handful of bills. Dutch laughs in relief and glee and gingerly takes the purse from Hosea’s hand. He counts the bills in it and laughs again.

“We done it, Hosea,” Dutch says.

Hosea arranges the bills into a tidy stack and tucks them back into his breast pocket. Dutch drops the purse into his own pocket and meets Hosea’s eyes. He claps Hosea on the shoulder and laughs again, then suddenly fists his hand in the front of Hosea’s shirt. A questioning syllable escapes Hosea's lips as Dutch pulls him in and kisses him on the mouth.

Hosea blinks in surprise. He pulls away, raises his hands to curl loosely around Dutch’s hand in his shirt and loosen his fingers.

"We need to get a move on," Hosea says quietly, still too close to Dutch to meet his eyes. He straightens his hat.

"Alright," Dutch says easily.

Dutch kisses Hosea again - too quickly and softly for Hosea to react even now that he expects it - and lets go of him, patting his arm as he turns to hoist himself onto his horse. 

“Not even after all that, huh?” Dutch muses, but it sets Hosea thinking.

“Shut up, Dutch."

Hosea takes his horse’s reins to lead her the rest of the way. They slowly start up a hill, weaving carefully between the young trees, Dutch uncharacteristically quiet all the while.. Hosea glances over at him, sometimes catches his eye to share some indecipherable look.

“Looks like there’s a stream down the hill,” Hosea says, “we can camp up here. Let’s get the horses some water. And I’d love to stop feeling like the inside of a jail cell.”

They let the horses drink while they fill their canteens. Hosea splashes the icy springtime water over his face and neck, a welcome refreshment after days in a jail cell. Dutch pretends to check his saddlebags but Hosea can feel his gaze.

The horses withdraw from the stream. Hosea fishes sugar cubes from his saddlebags and gives them each one. Dutch takes off his clothes, laying them over his saddle and stepping into the cold, shallow water. Hosea strips down and joins him in the ankle deep water and Dutch tosses him a bar of soap. The water is shallow and freezing, but the refreshment it brings after days in a jail cell is worth the chattering teeth. 

They talk absently about what to do with their reappropriated stolen money. The right thing, they agree, is to get over the state line and restock their saddlebags, save some, and give the rest away. 

They dry off as best they can and tug their clothes on over wet skin, not bothering with buttons or belts, fabric sticking to their cold and tacky skin.

Dutch whistles quietly as they brush down their horses. Hosea apologizes to Hardtack for the hard day, offers her a bruised crabapple that she takes gingerly from his palm. He pats her as he turns away, and moves to stand behind Dutch where he stands picking burs from Beatrice's mane.

"Dutch," Hosea says, tapping the back of his arm. Dutch turns around, surprised at Hosea's closeness, and - because Hosea isn’t going anywhere, because Dutch has known it too, since they left the jailhouse, or maybe even before that - Hosea tugs him close by his neckerchief and kisses him before Dutch's look of surprise can turn to one of satisfaction. Dutch's jaw goes slack for a moment before he realizes himself and leans into Hosea, arms instinctively wrapping around Hosea's waist and holding him close, backing himself up against a tree. Their hats fall to the ground.

Hosea buries his fingers in Dutch’s wet hair. Dutch's fingers flutter on Hosea’s back and he pulls back, presses his forehead against Hosea's. 

“You’re sure,” Dutch asks, though it comes out like a surprised statement, and it’s unclear what Hosea should be sure or unsure of, but he leans back from Dutch and nods, his ears roaring. 

Dutch moves to hold Hosea by his shirt with both hands, his eyes dark and wide and unmoving on Hosea's face.

“Hosea?” Dutch asks, but Hosea knows there’s no question to follow it.

"Huh?" Hosea pushes his hands under Dutch’s jacket and then his shirt, Dutch jumping as Hosea’s hands find his skin. Hosea is long familiar with the softness that obscures Dutch’s musculature, though this is the first time he’s touched him so thoughtfully, and Dutch’s own hands move with something that flits between determination to hesitation, tugging at Hosea’s jeans. 

Dutch moves with confidence and then slows himself, watching Hosea's face. He never thought he’d get this far, Hosea thinks, but Dutch does always somehow get what he wants, for better or worse. Hosea, thinking to compensate for Dutch’s uncharacteristic reluctance, simply pushes his hand into Dutch's undone corduroys. Overcoming the surprise, Dutch returns the motion, and his hand is heavy but welcome. 

They both move frantically, and Dutch babbles through it mindlessly, Hosea resisting a laugh until Dutch falls into eventual contented silence as he finishes, lazily taking Hosea with him.

It was only a matter of time, Hosea thinks, soothing himself and his pride over having given in to Dutch’s efforts. It make sense, he knows, the way that everything with Dutch seems to make sense, and he realizes that that security no longer frightens him.

He untangles himself from Dutch's arms, laughing, pushing himself away from Dutch wobbly-legged and warm. He retrieves his bedroll in a daze, throws it down on the ground. 

Dutch tosses him a handkerchief. He knows he should go down the hill to the stream to clean up, should drag Dutch with him, but collapses on his bedroll instead. 

Dutch laughs at him, shaking out his own bedroll next to Hosea’s before lying down as well and promptly falling asleep, an arm thrown over his eyes, his shirt and jeans still undone. His hair is a mess, his face is flushed, and he drops his other hand on Hosea’s arm. The heat in Hosea’s ears is a welcome contrast to the still-biting spring air, and he closes his eyes. 

Hosea wakes up as the sun is beginning to set. He gets up and kicks Dutch’s leg until he wakes, grumbling. 

They share a dinner of leftover dry good from their bags. In the cloudy darkness with just a lantern instead of a fire, they pass a cigarette back and forth in silence, reclining on their bedrolls, their knees pressed together.

“If I’d known that that was all it took to shut you up then I’d have done it much sooner,” Hosea finally says. 

“You had your chances, old man,” Dutch says.

“Well. Now I know,” Hosea looks over at him. Dutch flashes him a smile.

“That was your best work yet, by the way. In jail."

“In fixing your back or in getting us out of a bind?”

“Hm. Both,” Dutch says, and Hosea can hear the grin in his voice more than he can see it. Dutch leans over on his elbow and takes the cigarette from Hosea’s mouth, takes a ceremonious drag from it, and puts it back between Hosea’s lips. “Glad it was you in that cell with me.”

“I think you could have fared just fine on your own,” Hosea muses, though he’s sure Dutch knows that truly Hosea doubts it. 

“I would trust you to get me out of Hell itself, Hosea,” Dutch says. Hosea sighs, feels Dutch’s hand fall onto his own and squeeze it before letting go. 

“You’re tired,” Hosea dismisses him. 

“Speak for yourself,” Dutch says, but he puts out the cigarette and pulls the blanket over himself. He drops an arm over Hosea’s chest, promptly falling into a half-snoring sleep. 

Hosea wakes to birds chattering at each other, the sky already light. Dutch’s arm is still thrown over him. Dutch grumbles an barely-coherent good morning and kisses Hosea’s jaw, slipping his fingers under Hosea’s jeans like a question. Hosea doesn’t fight it, lets Dutch lazily touch him until he finishes. Seeing the smug smile tugging at Dutch’s eyes, Hosea props himself up on his elbow and determinedly undoes the buttons of Dutch’s corduroys.

“Hosea,” Dutch starts.

“Hm?” Hosea asks, but the tone cracks in his throat. When Dutch doesn’t respond, Hosea meets his eyes and takes him in his hand.

Hosea watches Dutch’s face as he aimlessly talks through it, meaningless half-sentences that Hosea wants to laugh at - but not now. There will be times to tease Dutch for his babbling later, Hosea knows. 

Dutch pushes his head back against the ground as he finishes, and meets Hosea’s eyes again, resisting a look of some uncharacteristic embarrassment that Hosea can see anyway. 

Dutch breaks away to wet a handkerchief from his canteen, offering it to Hosea first.

Dutch falls back onto his bedroll and presses his face into Hosea’s arm.

“Hosea,” Dutch mumbles into Hosea’s sleeve.

“Yes?”

“You ain't gonna rob me now, are you?” 

“Less you want me to.” 

Dutch hums sleepily and throws an arm over Hosea’s stomach. 

“Don’t go back to sleep. We’ve gotta get out of here.” 

“We should leave after dark,” Dutch says. “Think of the horses.” 

“Mm. Don’t tempt me,” Hosea says. Dutch pushes a hand into Hosea’s undone pants again, squeezing at his hipbone but doing nothing more. “I’m onto you, Dutch. Get up.” 

Dutch groans and rolls over. Hosea stiffly gets up and kicks at Dutch’s boots until he rises, halfheartedly swiping at Hosea’s arm as Hosea steps away to pack up his things.

They start moving south, knowing anyone from Kettering will be looking for them to the west. For weeks, Hosea finds himself easily convinced to retire while the robins are still singing, and even more easily convinced to stay in bed until well after the sun has risen. Hosea fusses about it to Dutch but doesn’t really mind - they have a big country ahead of them, as Dutch says, and all the time in the world.

+++

Dutch and Hosea zig-zag through the region evading the law, making money, giving money, wrapping each other up their enthusiasms. Dutch rambles endlessly about America, about the west, about living by example outside of civilization. They spend the days arguing until one of them gets bored, pulling the other along into something more pleasurable.

Spring comes slowly, every stream running wide and foaming with pollen, the leaves becoming more green and numerous by the day. Just as the final flowers fall and the bees stop thrumming in every tree, spring hurtles into summer, and Dutch and Hosea make work for themselves stealing wagons and picking pockets at parties and in saloons where drunkenness runs late on short summer nights. They sleep away the heat of the day in shady patches and spend the nights awake together when they aren’t cheating at cards and otherwise running scams on rich, drunken fools. 

Dutch often hauls Hosea into working with some character he had run with in his teens, before Hosea, the scarecrow-looking Colm O’Driscoll. Hosea doesn’t entirely trust him, knows that Dutch doesn’t either, though Dutch carries a strong respect for Colm despite it. When Hosea asks about Dutch’s past with Colm it devolves into one of Dutch’s characteristic rants about Colm’s poor professionalism and lack of any virtue or conviction. Dutch harbors a special anger for him that Hosea can’t decipher, but he lets it be. The takes when they work with Colm and his brother are always good, always worth Dutch’s bristling and raving. 

Even when things go right, Dutch carries on about the ways Colm has done the right thing the wrong way, and Hosea slowly puts together the pieces of the story of Colm and Dutch. Dutch says he met him halfway to Pittsburgh, Colm having come down from Boston himself with a group of other street boys, and Dutch had worked with them until Colm had, in some still-incomprehensible way to Hosea, proved himself unworthy of Dutch’s time. 

Hosea wonders sometimes if they had been fucking. He doesn’t dare ask and feels improper for speculating, especially when Dutch seems to resort to Hosea to wind down from his frustrations with Colm. It comes up infrequently enough that Hosea doesn’t trouble himself with it. 

Winter comes, too early for snow but cold enough to slow things down. Hosea wakes up with a chill and a cough in a grey morning.

Hosea shifts closer to Dutch under their blankets. It's cold enough to chill Hosea's nose and he regrets not having pitched a tent. Dutch stirs and wakes and loosely puts an arm over Hosea.

"You think you can turn me down all you like and still expect me to keep you warm at night, hm?" Dutch mutters. 

"Shut up, Dutch. I know you're cold, too," Hosea says. Dutch grumbles and shifts closer to Hosea, pulls the blanket higher up over both of them. “And how many times have I _really_ turned you down?"

Dutch chuckles.

"Should have pitched a tent," Dutch says, and Hosea can hear the cold in his voice. He weaves his legs with Hosea's.

Hosea reaches up and pulls the blanket around Dutch's head and then his own, leaving just their faces uncovered, foreheads nearly touching. 

“We can pitch one now.”

“Let’s just get a room somewhere. You don’t sound good.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh no, you need your lungs in good health for all those theatrical sighs you give me, Hosea,” Dutch says. Hosea begins to inhale and catches himself, and Dutch hears it and laughs without opening his eyes.

1876

Hosea's mother had taught him that to be silent was to be close to the Divine, but he had never felt the Divine in his silences, try as he might. However, Dutch talks enough that, when Hosea does get a rare prolonged silence, he suspects he might be feeling the Divine creeping into the silence with him. A light feeling of gratitude and security, something close to peace. 

Between the weightlessness of silence and the rhythm their horses on the road, Hosea finds himself thinking of very little.

"If I got you a dress would you wear it for me?" Dutch asks. They've been riding in silence for too long, Hosea should have expected Dutch's next words to be something like that. Hosea turns to him, eyebrows raised. 

"You wouldn't know my size," Hosea says. Dutch rolls his eyes and huffs. It's not the first time he's asked, but each time he approaches it some new way, as if he's finally cracked the code to getting the answer that he wants. 

"If I guessed it right, then?" 

Hosea laughs. 

"You could never," he says, nudging his horse into a trot. Dutch catches up to him, leaning in his saddle to smack Hosea’s arm.

“You underestimate me, friend,” Dutch says. Hosea sighs, slows his horse, waits for Dutch’s horse to fall back in step. “If I got you a dress _and_ it was your size, would you wear it? For me.”

“No,” Hosea says simply. Dutch groans. “Those days are behind me. I haven't done that since I was oh, twenty, a little older? Your age, probably. No more."

“You ain't that old," Dutch says, "besides -" 

"They're behind me, Dutch. Along with everything else,” Hosea says. It’s a conversation they’ve had many times. Hosea has left many things behind him, never out of shame but only due to a change of spirit. There are some things he misses greatly - performance is one of them - but worlds change and people move on.

Hosea feels Dutch reach out to swipe at his arm again, a lazy apology this time, a grasp at some reassurance. Hosea sighs and turns to look at him, pursing his lips. Dutch doesn’t say anything, just examines Hosea’s face.

“There’s a stream up that way, we should stop up there,” Hosea says. 

“For the night?” Dutch asks. The sun won’t set for hours still, but Hosea shrugs. Dutch grunts in agreement, drops his reins and expertly ties up his hair to keep it off his neck in the heat. 

"Sure." 

They dismount, lead their horses to a summer-starved stream, its pebbled bed largely dried up. Dutch squats down to throw water onto his face and Hosea lowers himself to the streambed and pulls off his socks and boots, methodically rolling up his pants. He plants his bare feet in the water, sinking them into the smooth pebbles and rough sand. Dutch lies back on the sun-warmed stones next to Hosea, water glittering over his hair and face and neck. He lets the back of his hand fall onto Hosea’s lap. 

“You’re not angry with me,” Dutch says, one of his flat questions. 

“No,” Hosea says, not fully remembering why he should be angry. He leans back on his elbows next to Dutch. His eyelashes glimmer with drops of water that disappear into his wet cheeks when he blinks.

"We have a whole future ahead of us. A whole country," Dutch says. "Ours for the roaming." 

"How ambitious of you, Mister Van Der Linde." 

"I'm serious, Hosea. The future is ours. Mine is yours and yours is mine."

Hosea sits up, pulls his feet out of the water and turns to face Dutch entirely. Dutch has one hand behind his head, the other lying in wait, palm up on Hosea’s thigh. 

“Do you mean that?” Hosea asks, 

“Yes. If you’re with me.”

“Yeah, I’m with you, Dutch,” Hosea says. Dutch lifts his hand and drops it back onto Hosea’s leg, a reminder. Hosea takes it, squeezes. “It never really was a question.”

“No, I guess it wasn’t,” Dutch says. He sits up next to Hosea, water still glittering in his hair and crawling down his face. He looks at Hosea, watches his eyes, laughs, and kisses him. Hosea laughs into the kiss in return, takes Dutch’s face in his hands to keep him close. His stubble scratches against Hosea's rough palms. 

“Let’s find someplace to settle in,” Hosea says softly, gently tapping Dutch’s cheek. Dutch reluctantly removes his hands from Hosea and smooths Hosea’s hair, pulling himself to his feet by Hosea’s shoulder and extending a hand to help him up. 

They dig in for the night in a young forest down a ways from where they stopped, where the stream branches from a slow-moving river. Hosea builds a fire, throws down their bedrolls, and joins Dutch at the river, taking advantage of the summer-warmed water and a new supply of soap. Dutch splashes Hosea lightly in the clear, waist-deep water until Hosea tells him to stop, then splashes him one more time and Hosea splashes him back, threatening him with the wet rag in his hands. Dutch laughs and surrenders, wading out of the stream and sitting on a rock in the summer-dried riverbed. Hosea rinses the soap from his skin and joins Dutch, the rocks still lightly warm from the sun. 

They dry, dress haphazardly in their clothes, and return to their fire, contently sharing stale bread and a can of peaches. Hosea will find some rabbits in the morning, get them a solid meal for the first time in however many days. 

“Hey,” Hosea says as Dutch leans back from stoking the fire. 

“Yeah?” 

Hosea leans over and kisses Dutch softly. Dutch lets out a laugh, reaches up for Hosea’s neckerchief and pulls him closer as he leans back onto the bedroll. Hosea gives in to it, settles himself with a knee between Dutch’s thighs, keeping his balance with his hands in Dutch’s hair. 

It's different - quiet and slow, and for the first time since the beginning not borne of some play fight or feigned bout of spite. By some miracle, Dutch doesn't talk through it as he usually does, doesn’t challenge Hosea with every movement. He mutters fragments of sentences against Hosea's skin now and then between his wheezy breaths but doesn't babble endlessly as is his custom any moment his mouth isn't occupied. 

Maybe that's the difference, Hosea thinks as Dutch's stubble scratches lightly at his shoulder, Dutch’s mouth hot on his skin - Dutch hasn't given himself a moment to talk this time.

And after, in the ragged silence, Dutch holds onto Hosea loosely. Another first, Hosea thinks, as if Dutch is no longer worried Hosea might slip away the moment Dutch closes his eyes.

“Hosea,” Dutch says softly, almost a question, having caught his breath but his cheeks still so pink that Hosea can see it in the firelight, where they lay half-clothed and fully comfortable. 

“Huh?”

Dutch drops his hand against Hosea’s chest and says nothing more. Hosea reaches up, locks their palms together, squeezes Dutch’s hand in understanding. 

The morning is cold and Hosea feels his lungs rattle high in his chest on his first breath upon waking. Dutch is pressed close to him under the blankets they share, their legs tangled together and Dutch's hand fisted in the front of Hosea's shirt like he's reaching for extra warmth. The sky is lightening from purple to yellow and Hosea decides he can wait a while longer before he rises, as damning as that may be. He shifts to lay on his side, to bury his cold nose in his arm. Dutch doesn’t stir. 

Dutch will wake up soon, cranky with sleep for a moment before trying to to lure Hosea into delaying the day further. Hosea watches Dutch’s young face for a moment, pushes his loose curls from his forehead.

It’s due to rain, Hosea can feel it like a wet rag in his lungs. Dutch will hear him wheezing and joke about it with concern in his eyes. They'll need to put up a tent and plan to wait out the rain, but that can wait until after Dutch wakes, after coffee. The jays are starting with their morning fuss with their metallic calling, somewhere far away in the tree tops. 

Dutch looks younger when he sleeps, his waking hardness smoothed out of his face, humbling him down to his mere twenty-one years. The softness of his youth won’t leave his face for another couple years, Hosea thinks, even put up against the elements. 

Lying on the ground with his eyes closed in the security of shared warmth, feeling much but thinking of nothing, Hosea is suddenly reminded of his mother. Sitting next to her in silent prayer, waiting to feel something divine like he had been instructed - something warm and light from within - for what was likely only an hour but always felt like several. 

This is what she told me to wait for, he thinks, suddenly articulate from the depths of thoughtless revelation, the thoughts emerging from the warmth in his own chest, bright enough to startle him into opening his eyes and sitting up. Dutch’s hand falls from his chest and Dutch stirs, waking and grumbling. 

"It's early," Dutch grumbles. 

"Not by much.” 

Dutch sits up and rolls his neck, pushes his hair from his face. Hosea removes himself from his bedroll and rises, looking down at Dutch’s waking face. 

"Shall we?" Hosea offers a hand to Dutch. “The day awaits.”

Dutch looks up, gives him a tired smile, and takes his hand to pull himself up. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said i'd be back with more and i'm back with more. and there will continue to be more, probably next week.
> 
> SPOILER WARNING: backstory reveals that are otherwise only revealed in chapter 6. 
> 
> ~13k words
> 
> other than that there's nothing new to disclaim. hope you enjoy. sorry if the formatting is funky and let me know if there are any unfinished sentences or anything like that.

1877

Dutch is nearly singing Hosea’s praises as they walk down the muddy street, his arm slung over Hosea’s shoulders and his eyes glittering in the crisp autumn moonlight. Under Dutch’s delighted rambling, Hosea hears a noise in an alley and shoves Dutch’s arm from his shoulders, taking a few steps back to peer into the darkness. In the shadows, a man is being held up, and from the sound of his nervous, protesting voice, he’s drunk enough to be unable to fight.

“Shall we?” Dutch asks, but he’s already walking surely down the alley, and Hosea follows him. He calls out to the men. “Hey partners, what’s going on here?”

The robber turns, freezes, and runs off, and without a word Dutch goes after him. Hosea shakes his head.

“Took all my money,” the man says shakily.

“My friend will be back to you with it shortly, I’m sure,” Hosea looks him up and down, at his fine clothes and neat hair and clean shoes, more composed than most of the town. No wonder he got robbed. “In fact, I think I’ll go and give him a hand. Where can I find you, friend?”

“I’m a partner at the lumber mill. Name’s Michael Jones.” 

“Ah,” Hosea says. “Well, you get home safe, Mister Jones, hopefully I’ll have your things back to you by morning.” 

Hosea nods a goodbye and trots down the alley, turns a corner, and stops, listening for Dutch’s voice. He walks quietly in the direction he had seen Dutch follow the robber, listening carefully until he finally hears the rough tones of Dutch’s voice. He finds him down another alley, holding a boy who looks fresh into his teens by the arm.

“Here’s our thief. Just a kid,” Dutch says, sounding impressed. He holds out a handful of money to Hosea and Hosea takes it and counts it.

“Fella’s from the lumber mill, don’t think he'll need it back,” Hosea says. Dutch laughs, turns back to the kid. 

“Are you done hitting me now?” Dutch asks him. The kid stares at him.

“Sure,” he says. Dutch lets go of him and he stands up straight, glaring at both of them, the hardness of his face hiding some desperation. “I saw you two in the saloon. Don’t know how that feller didn’t know you was cheating him.”

Dutch laughs, a warm sound from his chest. Hosea hands the kid the money he stole and the kid takes it, shoves it in his pocket. 

“Was it that obvious?” Dutch asks. 

“Yes,” the kid says. “Or I just have a good eye."

“Are you alone out here, son?” Dutch asks. The kid looks between Dutch and Hosea thoughtfully and nods. “Let’s get you something to eat, then. To make up for the inconvenience we caused you.”

He looks at them again, his brows furrowed and his jaw set defensively. A scar gleams slightly on his chin. 

“We don’t bite,” Hosea says. 

“Alright, sure,” the kid says. Dutch extends a hand to him, and the kid reluctantly takes it.

“Dutch van der Linde. This is my partner, Hosea Matthews.” 

“Arthur Morgan,” the kid says. 

“It’s a pleasure,” Dutch nods toward the street and starts down the alley, and Hosea falls in at his side. “Don’t you try and rob _us_ now, Mister Morgan.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Arthur says from behind them. 

They make their way up the street to the eating house, Dutch looking over his shoulder as if he’s worried the kid might disappear. Hosea keeps his chin down, hides his amusement. 

Dutch pays for the three of them and they sit down at a table against the wall, near a window, Arthur across from the both of them. Hosea gets Arthur the biggest bowl of stew he can, with extra bread. He can see that Dutch is thinking, setting himself on some idea, probably taking the kid with them. Hosea saw it coming the moment he turned the corner down the alley and found Dutch looking at the kid like he’d found a treasure. 

Arthur looks physically incapable of being scrawny, but he's underfed nonetheless, and puts careful deliberation into how he eats as if he’s trying not to look too hungry. Dutch watches him, Hosea tries not to, feeling rude.

Dutch knocks his knee against Hosea’s under the table as they eat, and Hosea knocks back, keeps their knees pressed together. 

“Thank you,” Arthur says when his bowl is empty. 

“You’re very welcome. What’s your story, Arthur?” Hosea asks.

“My father’s dead and I got nowhere to go,” Arthur says simply. He holds Hosea’s eyes like it hurts him to do so.

“How long have you been running on your own?”

“A year, maybe. Might be closer to two now. I tried a couple ranches and such, for work. Ain’t for me, I guess."

Dutch taps his boot against Hosea’s. Hosea taps back. 

“Well, you’re welcome to run with us as long as you need,” Dutch says. “We’ll make sure you're fed and can sleep with both eyes closed."

Arthur looks at Hosea, then at Dutch. He tears off a piece of bread uses it to sop up the remainders of his stew. He waits to finish chewing before he speaks.

“That sounds fine and all,” Arthur says, raising his chin and holding his jaw stiff, “but I don’t wanna kill no one unless I got to. I seen enough of that. And I ain’t doing favors neither. I seen enough of that, too.” 

“We ain’t like that, son. Not the killing or the favors,” Dutch says. Arthur looks at him and his eyes seem to soften, then he turns to Hosea and scans his face. 

“I didn’t think so,” Arthur says. Hosea holds his eyes until Arthur looks away, flexing his hands where they sit on the table. “What is it you two do? Other than chase down thieves.” 

“Usually we’re the ones being chased,” Dutch says. Arthur nods.

“We do rich folks the favor of managing their finances,” Hosea says, and Dutch chuckles.

“Giving and taking money as it’s needed,” Dutch says.

“I understand,” Arthur nods. “You mind if I eat some more before we go?” 

“Not at all. Our treat,” Hosea says.

When they finish, Dutch thumbs several bills out of a stack and places it under his plate. Arthur sees it, his face curious and impressed, as much as he tries to hide it. 

Arthur goes with them, riding quietly alongside them on an old horse that seems much better-fed than Arthur himself, to their camp just outside town. 

He busies himself with his horse, who he calls Buckle, for a while before coming to the fire and talking for a bit, asking where Dutch and Hosea come from and where they’re going, the usual campfire script. He sits quietly with a can of peaches and watches Dutch and Hosea argue over which way the smoke is blowing and where to lay their bedrolls. 

Hosea sees Arthur tilt his head when Dutch calls Hosea _darling_ as they argue _,_ watches as Dutch throws his bedroll down directly next to Hosea’s like always. He looks between Dutch and Hosea briefly - catching Hosea’s eye for a moment - before nodding to himself as if proven right and laying down his own bedroll in silence across the fire from them. 

Arthur falls asleep propped up on his saddle, looking stiff and cautious. He stirs awake each time Dutch or Hosea move or speak, looking around warily, tightening the quilt around his shoulders each time. 

+++

Arthur is slow to trust them but he works with them well and keeps to himself. He doesn’t seem to sleep much, not soundly at least. He plays along cautiously when Dutch tries to involve him in plans and conversations. The first time Hosea puts a hand on his shoulder he tenses and shies away, and Hosea makes a note not to do it again. Arthur looks surprised when he’s offered money and food and clothes, accepts it reluctantly but gratefully each time.

Dutch is unusually talkative, seemingly desperate for Arthur to stick around. Hosea tries to rein him in, to little avail, but Arthur doesn’t seem to mind, anyway. He seems to like listening to Dutch’s rambling and his stories about himself and Hosea that Hosea tiredly interrupts with corrections to make up for Dutch’s inevitable dramatization. 

Arthur watches Dutch and Hosea carefully, Hosea sees him silently observing them from under the brim of his beaten hat. It doesn't stop them from arguing, and Arthur doesn't seem troubled by it. What he's looking for and what he finds Hosea can't imagine, but whatever he does find must be satisfactory because he only seems to settle in further. He meets their eyes less and less, but it seems more a matter of comfort than fear.

Arthur shares about himself and his young life, speaks fondly of his mother, absently rubs at the scar on his chin when he speaks of his father. He talks about his horse like family, worries after him like a child. He befriends Dutch and Hosea’s horses as well, despite Beatrice’s nerves and Hardtack’s stubbornness. Beatrice doesn’t even like Hosea all that much even after all these years, and Hosea tells Arthur so, to Arthur’s restrained pride and delight.

One night, a few weeks after joining them, Arthur sheepishly announces over a shared can of fruit that he’ll stay with them for as long as they’ll have him, mumbling something about his gratitude. Dutch is elated, makes no effort to hide it, but Arthur seems appreciative of his excitement. Dutch offers him a drink and another can of fruit in celebration. 

That night, after Arthur falls into a sound sleep across the fire from them, Hosea has to peel Dutch off him. 

“Is this a matter of having an audience?” Hosea whispers, pushing Dutch away with his elbow, laughing. "I told you I ain't doing anything while he's here."

“What kind of degenerate do you take me for, Hosea?” Dutch says quietly against Hosea’s jaw. So it’s a yes, Hosea thinks, at least in part. 

Watching Arthur with one eye, Hosea still pries Dutch off him and resolves to weaving their fingers together on the ground. Dutch leans against Hosea’s shoulder and sighs, and Hosea leans back, content with the weight of Dutch’s presence.

“He already knows, Hosea," Dutch says softly. Hosea scoffs. It was never a secret, it's not a secret either of them would know how to keep if they tried. 

“It ain’t about him knowing, it’s about _you_ being _decent_ ,” Hosea elbows Dutch lightly. 

“If I’d known it would be such an inconvenience,” Dutch drawls, sits up, looks over the fire at Arthur where he’s wrapped in his quilt, only his eyes and hair to be seen. 

“You don’t mean that, and don’t pretend to. We’ll make it work,” Hosea says softly, tiredly.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Dutch whispers. 

"I _want_ to go to sleep,” Hosea says, keeping his voice light. 

Dutch squeezes Hosea's knee. Hosea stares at Dutch in silence until Dutch starts to squirm, then Hosea sighs and pushes himself up off his bedroll. 

"Where are you going?" Dutch asks. 

"For a walk. Are you coming?" 

Dutch scrambles up and Hosea laughs.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Hosea says. Dutch elbows him hard and then catches him by the arm, weaves their fingers together. Hosea looks over his shoulder as they leave the range of the firelight and sees Arthur stir, look after them, and put his hat back over his eyes.

+++

“Suppose you could you share?” Arthur asks one night, when Dutch lights his lantern and opens a book. Hosea looks up from his mindless whittling. 

“You wanna borrow a book?” Dutch asks, his face soft and alight.

“No…could you read out loud?” Arthur asks, voice tempered by some embarrassment evident in his face.

“Sure, sure,” Dutch says, voice sounding from high in his chest, like it does when he's caught off guard. “Do you want me to tell you what’s happened in the story so far?”

“Uh,” Arthur stammers, “sure. Thank you."

Dutch starts recounting the story for Arthur - it’s something dry about a man and his land - and Hosea watches the two of them, forgetting his whittling. Arthur is enthralled as Dutch reads, forgetting the cigarette in his fingers, and Dutch looks equally moved by Arthur’s request. Hosea avoids catching Dutch’s eyes, knowing it would distract him, and keeps his smiling to himself. 

Arthur dozes off halfway through a chapter, and Dutch softly closes the book, covers Arthur with a blanket, stokes the fire, and comes to stretch out next to Hosea where he reclines against his saddle. Dutch is warm next to him and Hosea leans over, lightly kisses his temple, and pushes Dutch’s always-loose strand of hair back from his forehead. 

"What's that for?" Dutch asks, voice tired but loose.

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“There always is with you.”

Hosea laughs and takes Dutch's hand in his own and absently massages his thumbs into the softness of Dutch's palm.

"I don't reckon he knows how to read," Dutch says softly. 

"Probably not. A boy like him..."

"We oughta teach him," Dutch says. Hosea hums his approval. 

“Sure,” Hosea says. “I’d say that’s one of your better ideas."

The next night Dutch sits down with his book, lights his lantern, and offers to continue reading for Arthur. Arthur nods shyly, and Dutch opens the book, pauses, then closes it and looks up at Arthur. 

“Say, Arthur, do you know how to read?” Dutch asks. Hosea braces himself where he sits sewing a torn seam in a shirt, waiting for Dutch to inevitably embarrass the boy. 

“I learned some, but…well you know how it is,” Arthur says, his voice cracking slightly, an awkward reminder of his youth. 

“We could teach you, if you wanted,” Dutch says. “A man is most free when he can read and write. Especially in a life such as this.”

“Sure,” Arthur says, surprise flickering on his face. 

“Excellent,” Dutch says, reopening the book and starting to read without another word.

They dedicate many mornings to reading and writing lessons, Dutch getting a thrill out of playing teacher and a greater thrill watching Hosea do the same. Hosea pointedly ignores Dutch’s warm gaze when he watches Hosea help Arthur with his penmanship. Watching Dutch help Arthur read the newspaper is more frustrating than charming to Hosea, Dutch being unable to wrangle Arthur’s frustration with himself with any grace. But surely enough, Arthur is soon able to write his name and stammer through newspaper headlines. 

“You’re a good teacher, Mister Matthews,” Dutch says as they walk along an ever-widening river. They left Arthur to fend for himself for the evening so they could go fishing, which he accepted gratefully and with visible amusement.

“Not for lack of trying,” Hosea says. 

“Seems awful natural. You belong in a schoolhouse, not out here.”

“In another life, maybe,” Hosea says, stopping to crouch at the riverbank, checking for any signs of life in the water. He stands up, satisfied with the movement he finds in the river. As he rises Dutch pulls him closer by the arm, holds Hosea’s chin as he kisses him. Hosea laughs. 

“I'd hope I still knew you in another life,” Dutch says. 

“You wouldn’t even know the difference,” Hosea says, twisting a finger in the ends of Dutch’s hair. Hosea hates the truth of it, that Dutch would likely still careen through life in his desperate way had he not stumbled into Hosea.

“Oh, I think I would,” Dutch says, resting his hands on Hosea’s hips. 

Hosea looks at Dutch, tries to imagine him in some other life, doing anything else, living any other way, and only meets an empty expanse. He laughs to himself. 

“What?” Dutch

“I don’t think you could live any other kind of life, Dutch,” Hosea says. 

"Certainly not without you, my dear Hosea," Dutch says. Maybe he’s right after all, Hosea thinks, because surely no one else would have half Hosea’s patience for his antics.

Hosea resists a shudder that runs up his spine. Dutch seems to notice it, blinking puzzled as he holds Hosea's eyes. Hosea takes Dutch's face in his hands and kisses him, holds him there until Dutch throws his arms around Hosea's ribs and nestles his face in his shoulder. Whenever Dutch doesn’t say whatever he’s thinking Hosea finds himself wondering about it, though he would never give Dutch the satisfaction of asking him what he’s pondering in those quiet, prayerlike moments. But he can tell in the way Dutch holds onto him, fingers spread securely over his ribcage, that he must be thinking of something close to gratitude for being alive when and where he is. 

“Come on, let’s go fishing,” Hosea says.

1878

Arthur proves content to be told what to do, but is not lacking in his convictions or intelligence by any means - regardless of his tendency to blurt out the obvious in his drawling tone that borders between being smart and being innocent. When he isn’t mumbling he speaks too loudly. Hosea finds it all endearing, and if Dutch notices any of it he doesn’t seem to mind.

Arthur, for as simple as he seems, is an efficient robber, though Hosea gently encourages him to try and use something to get the job done besides his brute force. Arthur listens dutifully and pays attention - always seeming to have Dutch and Hosea in his sight. They make good money pulling confidence tricks and robberies with Arthur, and people much more readily take the stolen money from a young man like Arthur than either Dutch or Hosea. 

It makes it easy to forget his youth until his indignance bubbles up, responding smartly to Dutch or rolling his eyes at Hosea, or waking up shouting from nightmares that leave him sitting up through the night. He gets into fights in that way of reckless young men and comes back to them bruised and bloodied but seemingly satisfied with himself. Hosea quickly loses track of how many times he and Dutch have had to take turns getting him out of jail. 

He fits in with them well, works with them well, and Hosea feels a warm and quiet pride to have him around. Dutch feels the same, his beaming and satisfied face giving every indication.

Arthur's fascination with Dutch is more obvious than he probably thinks. Dutch knows that Arthur admires him with his wide-eyed gaze, and Hosea reminds him each chance they have alone that Dutch shouldn’t let it go to his head. Hosea watches Dutch’s endless attempts to humble himself again, as much as Dutch can. 

Dutch’s fascination with Arthur resembles idolatry just as much as Arthur’s fascination with Dutch. Despite being a boy of his teens, Dutch thinks Arthur to be amazingly capable - and he is, Hosea admits, but nonetheless he tries to gently remind Dutch of Arthur’s youth, and tries to offer Arthur compassion where Dutch offers him camaraderie. 

For all of Arthur’s devotion to Dutch, it becomes Hosea who Arthur goes to for the softer things, the more earthly things from which Dutch is somehow so removed - how to shave cleanly, how to wear finer clothes when the rare opportunity arises, how to hunt and fish more efficiently, which plants to eat and which ones to avoid. Hosea is the one Arthur stays up with until the fire dies, talking low about his thoughts instead of, as he does with Dutch, loudly about plans and work. 

Arthur’s presence means Dutch has someone else to talk to, and Hosea finds it a surprisingly welcome relief. Hosea still has to listen to Dutch prattle on with his stories and his speeches, and he would feel bad for Arthur if it weren’t for the look of interest in his face whenever Dutch starts up talking. Sometimes Dutch tempers himself, talks gently, offers Arthur some real and humble lesson, and Hosea doesn’t mind listening to that so much. He likes hearing Dutch soften himself so. 

Dutch’s stories often include Hosea - so often that if Hosea was not himself he would guess that Dutch had never lived without him. Hosea likes hearing them, likes the fondness with which Dutch speaks of him, something softer and more reverent than what Hosea hears from him directly. When Dutch thinks Hosea isn’t listening he speaks with a bubbling fondness that makes Hosea stop what he’s doing, tuck his chin to his chest, and smile. 

"Kid's the only person on earth who can listen to you talk that long and even he’s exhausted," Hosea tells Dutch one night, Arthur having fallen soundly asleep after a reading lesson had drifted into another dramatic life lesson from Dutch. 

"You been listening to me talk for years, Hosea," Dutch says, singsong on Hosea’s name. Hosea doesn’t look up from where he’s stitching a torn seam in a shirt.

"You've been talking to me for years. Doesn't mean I was listening. In fact, I stopped listening the day I met you.” 

“Oh, if only that was convincing,” Dutch says, and Hosea laughs and turns his face away as Dutch tries to kiss him.

“I’m not getting into this tonight,” Hosea says, lightly pushing Dutch’s face away with the shirt in his hand.

“Is this my shirt?” Dutch takes it, holds it out to examine the repairs.

“It is,” Hosea says, elbowing Dutch’s side, “you owe me.”

"Happily," Dutch says with a wink. Hosea rolls his eyes.

+++

Dutch and Arthur are arguing about something, some continuation of a tense discussion of a plan over dinner. Hosea is cleaning his mess kit and doesn’t hear it but for the tones of Arthur spitting something smartly at Dutch and Dutch firing back with something loud about being a street kid. Hosea looks up in time to see Arthur shrinking. He stands up, angrily grabs his hat, and stalks off to the horses. 

Hosea is almost sure Arthur will leave then, slipping out into the night never to be seen again.

Dutch seems satisfied with Arthur's lack of reply and picks up his book silently, though he’s visibly too frustrated to read it. Hosea finishes washing the tinware and goes to Dutch, standing over him until he looks up. 

“Hosea,” Dutch says. Hosea looks over his shoulder at Arthur, cooing to the horses out of earshot with his head ducked low. Hardtack knocks Arthur's hat off and Hosea hears him stifle a laugh. 

“You can’t go saying that to him, Dutch,” Hosea says.

“You weren’t even here,” Dutch says.

“I heard enough. He’s still a boy, you can’t cross the same lines he can.”

“Well, you’re the expert,” Dutch says dryly. 

“You know as well as I do,” Hosea sighs and walks away, retires to his bedroll to read.

Camp stays quiet for the rest of the night, each of them alone in their separate activities. 

Hosea stirs awake when Dutch comes to bed, settling in under the blankets. Hosea rolls over to face away from him.

“Don’t tell me you’re mad at me,” Dutch says softly.

“I am,” Hosea says, rolling over to face him. He sits up on his elbow to see Arthur facing away from them on his own bedroll a ways away. 

“Why? Because of all that earlier?”

“Yes, Dutch.”

“He’ll be fine,” Dutch says. 

“That ain’t the point,” Hosea rolls back over and pulls the blanket up over himself, “and you know it. You go worrying about him leaving all the time, but that's the way to assure it.”

“He ain’t going anywhere.” 

“That’s your worst excuse yet." 

“What do you want me to do?” Dutch asks.

“Think about it, Dutch,” Hosea says. Dutch huffs a sigh behind him and rolls over.

Dutch looks exhausted in the morning, his face pale and his eyes glassy. Arthur keeps to himself, eating breakfast and taking his coffee from Hosea before going to brush the horses again. Hosea busies himself with tidying up the camp and collecting wood, and neither Dutch nor Arthur acknowledges him or each other with more than a nod.

“Arthur,” Dutch calls as he fastens his gun belt, walking over to the horses. Arthur looks up from where he’s brushing Dutch’s horse. “Come on into town with me. You brush those horses any more they’ll start balding.” 

“Sure,” Arthur says, eyeing him warily. 

“I ain’t gonna leave you there and run off, son. Settle down.”

“I know,” Arthur says stiffly, and he checks and readies his horse.

“Don’t you go running off yourself, neither."

“Hosea, we’ll be back before evening. You need anything?” Dutch calls as he mounts his horse, the first thing he’s said to Hosea all morning.

“I’m all set, Dutch,” Hosea waves, and he watches them go.

Dutch and Arthur return as the sun is just starting to shy from the height of the sky, both of them in an easier mood than they were when they left. Hosea hears Dutch talking quietly to Arthur as they brush down their horses, hears his own name a few times but nothing else. 

“Hey,” Dutch comes up to where Hosea is seated grinding some herbs, knocks his hip into Hosea’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Hosea says. Hosea looks to Arthur, who is sitting contently at the fire looking nowhere near as afraid as he had before they left. Whatever they got up to, Dutch resolved something.

“You will never believe what I found in town, my dear Hosea,” Dutch says. Hosea looks up at him. “Put that stuff down. Gonna make me sneeze anyway. Surprised you ain’t coughing over it.”

Hosea sighs and sets down his mortar. Dutch gently replaces it in Hosea’s hands with a burlap bag and sits down next to him. 

“How’s Arthur?” Hosea asks quietly.

“He’s fine. Got him some new socks since he’s been needing them. We even made some money. _And_ I found these, not even Arthur has seen them yet,” Dutch nods to the bag in Hosea’s lap. Hosea looks at him with theatrical wariness and Dutch elbows him.

Hosea folds back the canvas to reveal a generous collection of fresh peaches. The smell meets his nose and he laughs.

“Now that’s a miracle if I ever saw one. All the way up here at this time of year, huh?” Hosea picks one up and squeezes it, surprised at its firmness, and looks up at Dutch.

“I paid for them and all,” Dutch says. Arthur comes over, leaning curiously over to see.

“This is what you was so excited to bring home? What are they?” 

“They’re peaches,” Hosea says, lifting one up to Arthur. He takes it and rubs his thumb over its fuzzy surface and grimaces at the texture, handing it back. 

“I’ll stick to the cans,” Arthur says. 

“Oh no, you should try these,” Hosea says.

He gets out his knife and carefully peels the skin from the peach, carving out a slice for Arthur and holding it out on the blade of his knife. Arthur takes it and puts it in his mouth, gives an impressed nod, and thoroughly wipes the juice off his hands on the knee of his pants.

“That ain’t bad,” Arthur nods.

“Much better than anything in a can, huh?” Hosea offers a whole peach to Arthur, who grimaces again as he takes it but goes back to where he was sitting and sets to peeling off the skin.

Dutch takes a peach from the bag himself and Hosea turns to him.

“Is this all some sort of elaborate apology?” Hosea asks. 

“It was not the original intent, but if you’d like it to be an apology then I ain’t about to stop you,” Dutch says. Hosea sighs and gives him a brief kiss on the corner of his mouth. Dutch laughs and leans his shoulder into him. 

“I appreciate you taking Arthur out,” Hosea says. 

“Yeah, yeah. Enough about it,” Dutch says. Hosea shakes his head and holds out a slice of a peach to him. Dutch smiles and takes it.

+++

Dutch stands up from the fire and offers Hosea his hand.

“Take a walk with me, dear,” Dutch says. Hosea looks up at him tiredly.

“We took a walk this morning,” Hosea says. It had been a long walk, too, that ended with Hosea halfheartedly trying to keep Dutch from falling asleep in the grass and eventually dragging him home. Finding work has been slow, and the days have been slower, and there has been very little for any of them to do.

Dutch sighs and reaches his hand out further. Hosea takes it, pulls himself up, and excuses himself to Arthur, who smirks and shakes his head. 

Hosea walks silently with Dutch into the trees. The fire is nearly obscured by the trees when Dutch takes Hosea’s arm and pulls him toward him, leaning back against a tree. Hosea rests his hands on Dutch’s hips and shakes his head.

“What?” Dutch asks. 

“You’re a production. What do you want?”

Dutch hums, takes Hosea’s face in his hands and kisses him. 

“Just that.”

“I can’t help but be doubtful, Dutch,” Hosea says. Dutch lets go of his face and drops his hands to Hosea’s, weaving their fingers together. 

“Can I not just want to see you alone?” Dutch rolls his eyes. Hosea lifts their hands and kisses Dutch’s knuckles between his own fingers. “We’re lucky.”

“We certainly are,” Hosea says, unsure of what Dutch is referring to, but he agrees nonetheless.

Dutch moves to step out from between Hosea and the tree. 

“Oh, are we done?” Hosea catches Dutch by his hip. Dutch leans back against the tree and pushes his hands under Hosea’s coat. 

“We don’t have to be,” Dutch says, “I thought you were done for the day.”

“Mm, well, we’re already out here,” Hosea says. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

"Sure, sure," Dutch kisses Hosea's neck. He turns Hosea, holding onto his waist, to switch places and put Hosea's back against the tree trunk. Hosea raises his eyebrows as Dutch, in a series of practiced motions, undoes Hosea's pants. "We don't need to make too much of a mess, though." Dutch kisses Hosea once on the lips and lowers himself to his knees. 

“Oh, how nice of you, Mister van der Linde. Make sure you don't make a mess of yourself, either," Hosea says, twisting his fingers gently in Dutch's hair.

“You’ll have a chance to make sure of it yourself if you don’t touch me," Dutch taunts, almost a plea, pushing Hosea's hand from his head. Dutch has finished from Hosea pulling at his hair enough times that Hosea has made it a frequent point of teasing. Hosea laughs, pats Dutch's cheek, and reaches for the branch hanging above his head. 

“Do your worst,” Hosea says. 

“Oh, no. Only the best for you, old girl,” Dutch says, and Hosea’s laugh is cut short as Dutch takes him in his mouth. 

They walk back to camp together, bumping their shoulders together in silence. Arthur is still reclining at the fire, squinting thoughtfully at a book. Arthur looks up at them and snorts a laugh. Hosea kicks his boot. 

“Everything okay out there?” Arthur asks, a smile hiding in his voice under his hat. 

“We didn’t run into any trouble,” Dutch says. He lies back on his bedroll and lazily pulls Hosea’s closer to his own. Hosea stiffly lowers himself to his blanket and sighs.

“You okay, old man?” Arthur asks, hiding a smirk under the brim of his hat. 

“My knees ain't what they used to be,” Hosea says simply. Dutch chuckles and Arthur tips his head back and lets out a sigh and a laugh at once. 

1879

The clerk in the store, despite his evident good spirits, is openly wary of Hosea and Arthur, watching them carefully as they browse the shelves in their weathered clothes. It’s been too long since they’ve stopped over in a town and Hosea knows that it shows. Still, the clerk jokes with Hosea about the weather and the ways of the world in that scripted way of normal men, and Hosea gladly jokes back as he browses, to Arthur’s poorly-hidden amusement. 

The door opens behind them and Hosea looks over his shoulder to see Dutch, a box from the gunsmith under one arm. Hosea turns back to the cans on the shelf, not wanting to arouse any more suspicion from the clerk. Arthur moves to the counter, fishing coins out of his pockets.

“Your old man ain’t paying for this for you?” The clerk asks. Hosea looks over at Arthur and the clerk in surprise, biting his lips together to hide a smile. It’s almost an easy mistake, Hosea thinks, with their fair hair and Hosea’s age.

“What? Oh. No, sir. I like for my things to be my own,” Arthur says, handing the clerk a handful of coins and picking a simple journal up off the counter, tucking it into his satchel. 

“How enterprising,” the clerk says, sounding as impressed as Hosea feels.

“Oh, he certainly is. Gets it from his father, if I do say so myself,” Hosea sets his armful of cans and boxes on the counter, claps Arthur on the shoulder, and opens his own satchel. He sees Dutch watching them, half entertained and half thoughtful. Hosea can see his mind working like a watermill in his eyes.

Hosea pays for their things, giving Arthur the saddlebags to hold as he loads it with their goods. He excuses himself past Dutch and leads Arthur outside, stepping down into the muddy street. He finally looks at Arthur and they both start to laugh.

“How old do you reckon he thought you was?” Arthur laughs.

“You forget that I really am old enough to be your father, Arthur,” Hosea says with a sigh. “Well, let’s get a move on, _son_."

Arthur rumbles with laughter again and starts walking down the street with Hosea to their horses. Hosea fastens the bags and settles into the saddle, leaning his forearms on his saddle horn as he waits for Dutch to finish his business and meet them.

“A journal, then, huh?” Hosea asks Arthur, who looks up at him from stroking his horse’s nose. Arthur blushes, visible even in his sun-pinked cheeks.

“For drawing. Mostly. I’ll practice my writing too, I guess,” Arthur looks back to his horse. Hardtack noses at Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur removes a hand from Buckle to pet . “My writing is going well, I think."

“You’ve certainly improved. I didn’t take you for an artist,” Hosea says.

“I used to like to draw, sometimes,” Arthur says. Hosea is about to ask him more, but he spots Dutch making his way toward them.

“Gentlemen,” Dutch finally meets them, shaking his head as he unhitches Beatrice. Hosea sees the chuckle in Arthur’s shoulders at the sight of Dutch’s mild annoyance. Arthur mounts his own horse and catches Hosea’s eye.

“Say, _son_ , would you like to go fishing later? I saw a nice little stream back the way we came,” Hosea asks Arthur. Dutch sighs as he mounts his horse.

“Oh, enough, you two,” Dutch says.

“I ain’t even said nothing!” Arthur protests.

“I know what old Hosea gets you wrapped up in."

“Oh, Dutch, are you jealous?” Hosea asks.

“Ain’t nothing to be jealous of,” Dutch says. Arthur smirks at Hosea. “I saw that, Arthur.” Dutch clicks Beatrice into motion and Arthur and Hosea follow. 

As they ride onto the open road, Hosea catches up to Dutch to ride next to him.

“Don’t you start,” Dutch warns. Hosea shakes his head, reaches into the pocket of his jacket. 

“I didn’t forget you, dearest,” Hosea says, holding out a cigar to Dutch that he had pocketed from the store while chatting with the clerk. Dutch glares at it shortly but reaches out and takes it.

“Thank you,” Dutch says. Hosea hums, then stifles a laugh. “Oh, enough, Hosea.” 

“Okay, okay,” Hosea bites his lips. Dutch inhales heavily, exhales a small laugh, and Hosea leans in his saddle to swat Dutch lightly on the arm. 

+++

"God damn it," Dutch mutters. Hosea looks away from the bout of casual barrel racing they had been watching. 

"What?" Hosea asks. 

"Damn Colm O'Driscoll is here.” Dutch throws his cigarette on the ground. 

"You seen him?" Hosea asks. Dutch nods to his other side and Hosea sees the distinct scrappy shape of Colm among the crowd. "You wanna leave?"

"No, he already saw me. I ain't gonna run from a man like him," Dutch turns back to the racing, leans on the fence on his forearms.

Dutch has made Colm out to be as close to the devil as an uncivilized man can be. It’s been years since they’ve worked with him and in that time Dutch has grown increasingly resentful of Colm. Beyond being an unpleasant person and a poorly-motivated thief, Hosea doesn’t see what makes Colm so uniquely horrible, but he trusts Dutch’s judgment enough to share his enemies.

Colm sidles up to Dutch, wielding their familiarity like a pistol in the way he moves. 

"Dutch," Colm says, then looks to Hosea, meeting his eyes coldly. "And you. Jonah, right?"

"Hosea, actually," Hosea says. Dutch is tense between the two of them, Hosea knows Colm can see it. He nudges Dutch's boot gently with his toe.

"Right, of course. Been a while. Glad you’re still alive with that cough of yours, eh? Surprised you two are still running together." 

"Never had a reason to stop," Dutch says.

"That's nice," Colm says. "Who's the kid?”

"He's a kid," Dutch says.

"I didn't take you for the type, Dutch," Colm says, and Dutch bristles. "Or have you been feeling paternal? Bet you feel real good with a kid to preach to. You always did think you had something to teach folks." 

"I feel good running with men I can trust," Dutch says. Colm laughs, leans back against a fencepost. 

"Things've been good, Dutch. I got a good outfit now, we make good money. I'm sure you've heard." 

"No, I ain't heard. I got better things to read than the papers,” Dutch says. Dutch does, in fact, read the papers, and he complains each time about Colm and his gang robbing and killing the wrong people for the wrong reasons, ranting to Hosea that men like Colm are the reason the world is closing in so tightly on men like Dutch, that Colm is just as bad as all the men that Dutch lives to spite.

"Oh, well. Better for it, then, so you don't have to know what you're missing." 

"Can't imagine I'm missing much," Dutch says dryly. Colm chuckles. Hosea resists putting a hand on Dutch's back and easing him away. "I got everything and everyone I need." 

Colm chuckles.

"Well, if you two," Colm finally looks to Hosea again, a tempered measure of disgust in his eyes that catches Hosea off guard, "and your _boy_ ever get tired of playing house, I'm sure I owe you a favor or two. It don't need to be so difficult, Dutch. We were friends once, you know." 

"Sure," Dutch says. "Well, it was a pleasure to see you, Colm, but I'm afraid we have some obligations," Dutch pushes off from the fence and turns to go, and Hosea follows him 

"Course you do. I'll see you, Dutch. And...Hosea." 

"Don't try too hard," Dutch throws over his shoulder. He mutters a string of curses as they walk away. 

Around a corner and out of sight Hosea puts a hand on Dutch's elbow. 

"Oh I'm fine, Hosea," Dutch says. "Where the hell is Arthur?" 

"Last I saw he was being accosted by some old woman at the stables." 

"We better go help him, then." 

1880

“It didn’t need to go that way, Dutch." Hosea has yelled himself hoarse now, riding back to their camp along the now-familiar deer trails. Arthur rides silently ahead of them, shaking his head as Hosea shouts circles around Dutch. Dutch gave up yelling back long ago.

The robbery had gone very wrong very quickly. It was only a stagecoach, but Hosea had had a bad feeling about it from the start. It seemed too good to be true, and it was - the men had been too prepared, they could see it before they even started, and Dutch still wanted to follow through. Hosea had shooed Arthur off the moment things started going south. When Dutch had finally turned tail, the man riding in the coach had had a rifle pointed at Dutch's back. Hosea drew his own gun and shot him in the shoulder, cursing, and took off after Dutch.

"I didn't think this was a good idea in the first place. Robbing some high stakes stage like that, here and now." How many times he's said it now, he doesn't know.

"Maybe if you'd trusted me - "

"I did trust you. That's the problem, Dutch! I trusted you when I knew better. It was too ambitious, Dutch."

Finally Dutch hangs his head, run out of justifications.

"I know, Hosea. I should've listened," Dutch says. Dutch, thanks to his foolish pride, never tries to placate Hosea. He says what he means if he means it, and that's enough. 

"Don't let it happen again, Dutch. You know how I feel about it. You know I don't like killing or almost-killing. That ain't us and it ain't worth the risk." 

Dutch is silent. He stays silent as they dismount and settle the horses in. Arthur lies down on his bedroll and turns away from them, scribbling in his journal and making himself invisible. Dutch starts a fire without a word and lays out on his bedroll facing away from Hosea.

Hosea sits on his own bedroll and watches the fire. If he watches it long enough, maybe the trouble will pass him by. He hears a gunshot in each pop.

"Hosea?" Dutch starts after a long silence. 

"I ain't gonna fight about it anymore," Hosea says. 

"It weren't that," Dutch says softly, but adds nothing else. Hosea lies down, facing away from Dutch. The cool autumn wind rattles the trees above them. 

Hosea wakes with a start to the sound of movement. He reaches for his gun before he can open his eyes. 

"It's just me," Dutch says quickly. 

"Why are you up so early?" Hosea asks, peering through the trees at the cloudy early morning sky. He coughs as he sits up. 

"You were coughing," Dutch says. 

"Coulda woken me." 

"You needed the rest." 

"I'm sorry," Hosea says, rubbing his eyes. 

"No," Dutch presses a cup of coffee into Hosea's hands and moves to sit next to him, not touching him. 

"I'm fine," Hosea says. "It's just the cold.” 

“All that yelling you did yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, it was needed.”

“I know,” Dutch says, and it’s enough. Hosea gently punches Dutch’s shoulder and Dutch nods. 

+++

Hosea steps out the back door of the saloon and stops to breathe. The sound of a scuffle comes from around the corner, and Hosea waits and listens, wondering what kind of scuffle it is. Something sometbing. He moves slowly around the corner, finds a man pushed against the wall by a smaller but stockier man, stamping his feet in resistance.

"Hey!" Hosea calls. "What's going on here?"

The smaller man stops and regards Hosea with a vibrating disdain, his face coyote-like but palatable enough to fool someone. Hosea reaches for his gun as an instinct, holding it to the man's face before he can think.

"I suggest you get out of here before I give you what you deserve," Hosea says coolly. The smaller man backs up, releasing the other man, and lopes off down the alley. 

"Thank you, Mister," the man says, his voice raw and tired. He regards Hosea for a moment and his eyes soften, his face becoming something familiar in expression. He has a gentle face, youthful and full-featured but painted with untimely weariness. Hosea feels for a moment as if he’s looking in a mirror.

"You okay?” Hosea holsters his gun.

"He took the last of my money, if it weren't bad enough to just beat the hell out of me," the man says breathlessly, nursing surely bruised ribs. 

"I'd go chase him down for you but - “

"No no, it's fine. It wasn't much, anyway.” 

“Here, take this,” Hosea digs into his pocket and pulls out a couple crumpled bills without looking at them. He looks at Hosea warily. 

“Oh, I couldn’t,” he says. Hosea holds it out to him again. He hesitantly takes it. “Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble,” Hosea says, and he turns to go but pauses. “Where are you staying?”

“I live here. Above the portrait studio. I own the portrait studio, actually.” 

“Ah. Brave of you to pursue such engagements in the same place you live and work.”

“I know. I tell them I work at the train station. He wasn't from here.”

“I would hope not. I’ll walk with you, case he comes back,” Hosea says. The man thinks, nods, and starts walking stiffly down the alley toward the street. 

“It’s only a block this way. I do appreciate it, Mister…”

“Hosea Matthews.”

“Eugene Perrin.”

“Proud to know you, Eugene.”

“And you as well. Are you from around here?”

“Not quite. Just passing through on some business.” 

“Your accent gives you away,” Eugene says. Hosea chuckles. “Is it interesting business?”

“To some. For me it’s just business.”

“Aha, I think I understand. Are you traveling alone?”

“No, no. I got a partner, and a…I got a couple partners, I guess."

“Lucky man. Loneliness doesn't suit many.”

“No, it certainly doesn’t,” Hosea says.

“Cigarette?” Eugene offers.

“No, thank you,” Hosea declines, and Eugene studies Hosea for a moment before he nods and looks ahead once again. They come up on the portrait studio, a tiny well-kept storefront. 

“This is it. Thank you again, I…well, you know.”

“I do. All too well, unfortunately. Take care of yourself, Eugene.”

“Oh, I will. Say, I owe you. Come back sometime, before you leave town. I’ll take your portrait. Bring your partners too, if they want.”

“That’s mighty kind, but - “

“Please, I insist. It’s the least I can do.”

“I’ll see with them about it, but I can’t make any guarantees,” Hosea says. 

“Well, you know where to find me. Think about it. Goodnight. And thank you again.”

“It’s no trouble. Goodnight,” Hosea says. 

Eugene turns to unlock the door and Hosea waits until the door closes behind him before he turns to go himself, back to the saloon where he had left Arthur and Dutch. 

Hosea mentions his encounter that night and - as he had expected - Dutch leaps at the chance for portraiture. Arthur grumbles, hides under his hat.

“Oh, Arthur, it’s not so bad,” Dutch says. 

“Dutch…” Arthur protests, “I ain’t dressing up and playing games.”

“It ain't a _game_ , Arthur, it’s a chance to immortalize your youth and beauty in something other than a bounty poster,” Dutch insists.

“I ain’t got any bounty posters."

“Not yet, but you will. All me and old Hosea got are bounty posters.”

“And you look mighty nice in them,” Arthur says.

“You don’t even have to dress up, Arthur. It doesn’t take long,” Hosea offers. 

“What kinda lawless men go and get their portraits taken?” Arthur asks. “But fine, I guess I’ll do it if that’s what you two want.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” Dutch says. He elbows Hosea excitedly and Hosea shakes his head, silently pleased.

Hosea leads them to Eugene in the morning, and Eugene is delighted to see Hosea again. He moves stiffly, but his face is only lightly bruised. He seems impressed by Dutch and Arthur, and Dutch is more than happy to make an impression on him. Eugene, to Hosea’s amusement and relief, is politely immune to Dutch’s charms. He gives Hosea a look over Dutch’s shoulder and Hosea shrugs. 

“If I were a braver man I would take to living like the three of you,” Eugene says. He looks between Dutch and Hosea. “You have the right idea, if you ask me."

Arthur grumbles through the entire process, visibly uncomfortable, and Eugene doesn’t seem to mind it. When they leave, Hosea leaves a stack of bills on Eugene’s desk under his hat, knowing he would never accept it from Hosea’s hand. 

Arthur does come to love the photograph, looking thoroughly impressed by it once he can hold it in his hands. He tucks it into his journal and Hosea catches him looking at it often, eyebrows furrowed thoughtfully.

Hosea comes back from hunting one morning and finds Arthur sitting at the fire sketching in a water-warped journal. He should find Arthur a new one, he thinks. Arthur doesn’t angle the pages away from Hosea like he usually does, and Hosea casually glances over Arthur’s shoulder. 

“Here,” Arthur holds out his journal, turning his head away, bravely embarrassed. 

On the page is a careful pencil sketch of distinctly Dutch and Hosea-shaped figures hunched over a map together, a scene from the night before. Hosea knows Arthur sketches everything around him, he’s caught glimpses of drawings of horses and strangers and even Dutch and himself, but never had the invitation to truly study Arthur’s sketches. 

“You’re wasted as an outlaw, Mister Morgan,” Hosea says. 

“Would you rather be immortalized in just your bounty posters?” Arthur asks. Hosea laughs.

“Well, thank you for your noble sacrifice,” Hosea says. He pats Arthur on the shoulder, looks at the sketch one more time and smiles. “You oughta show Dutch. It’ll go right to his head.” 

1881

Hosea sees it coming the moment Susan sits down at their saloon table. She sits stiffly with her dark auburn hair tied back but loose around her shoulders, a hardness in her eyes daring anyone to look at the raw pink scar healing along her cheek. Still, she offers Dutch touches and smiles that set him to hang on every word she says with desperate intrigue as she talks about having been on her own after killing a john.

It comes as no surprise when she comes back to camp with them, when she and Dutch dance around each other for two days before Dutch finally poses one of his flat questions to Hosea in too many words, already knowing the answer. 

Hosea appreciates that Dutch asks him at all.

“Sure, Dutch, go ahead,” Hosea says, honestly, and Dutch watches him for a moment as if he’s surprised, but Hosea knows Dutch expected nothing else. Dutch gets what he wants, he always does, and whatever he’s chasing with Susan can’t last long. Dutch simply loves to love and be loved, the way that some men love to drink or gamble. So Hosea steps back on his own to save everyone the trouble and finds himself sleeping alone again, for the first time in years, but with the stars over his head he doesn’t really mind. 

Susan is hard in her own way, toughened by knowing exactly what she deserves - and what needs to be done around camp, which she always sees through. She’s frightening in a charming sense, and bosses Dutch around in a way only a woman could - Hosea can see why Dutch is so enthralled by her. 

Dutch and Susan have the discretion of stray dogs, and even that Hosea doesn’t mind. When they start up - always an annoying, dramatic process of arguing and insulting that sometimes leads them to a tent but often does not - Arthur excuses himself to take his horse out and Hosea excuses himself for a walk, giving Dutch and Susan the privacy they don't give themselves.

Susan seems to tout something above Hosea, meeting his eyes with some veiled challenge too often while sitting in Dutch’s lap. For as smug as she may be she still yields to Hosea with some evident knowledge of Dutch’s priorities and her own temporary place in his sight. Hosea finds it petty, but he ignores it.

Sometimes on his walks in the dark Hosea takes care of himself in the conscious darkness of the woods. Hosea imagines that it should be more saddening, but he finds that there's little jealousy and frustration in it, as much as he may miss Dutch’s exclusivity. It's no different from the years he spent alone or the months before Dutch had finally dug in his fingers and pulled Hosea over the edge with him.

He realizes in one of those empty moments in the dark that he could easily go off on his own into town, find someone else while Dutch and Susan fool around and play their games - but he doesn’t. He imagines it would be more difficult than being alone in the darkness with only his own hands. 

They steal away sometimes like they did before, when Dutch can be distracted - not without Susan’s knowledge, because it could never be a secret so long as Dutch is involved. She doesn’t seem to mind it. Hosea suspects that sometimes she pushes Dutch in Hosea’s direction herself, and he can’t say he blames her.

Hosea imagines one day, with his hand in Dutch’s jeans and Dutch’s face in his neck, that he should say something aloud to remind Dutch of all that lies between them. But, with Dutch crying hot into the crook of his neck, he realizes he doesn’t need to say anything at all. Dutch already knows, he must - if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be backed up against a rickety shack in the woods with his hands shaking against Hosea’s skin. 

And that holds Hosea over well enough. Even if it weren’t for their walks and their fishing trips, for Dutch’s casual touches and affections, Hosea wouldn’t mind. It’s enough to have Dutch there every day.

+++

For the third morning in a row Susan reminds Arthur to wash his clothes, and for the third morning in a row Arthur sets his jaw and gives a noncommittal grunt. Susan goes after him, presses the soap into his hands and points in the direction of the river. Hosea looks up from where he eats his breakfast at the fire.

“I mean it, Mister Morgan."

“You know, we was doing fine without you, Miss Grimshaw,” Arthur says, unbothered and drawling but still pushing just enough. 

“Excuse me?” Susan steps up to him, eyes flashing. Hosea feels Dutch elbow him. 

“I said we was doing fine without you, Miss Grimshaw. We don’t need no special supervision.”

Susan watches Arthur’s face for a short moment as if she expects him to retract his words, and then slaps him across the cheek before he can open his mouth. Arthur's hand flies to his jaw, his eyes wide open, and he laughs. Dutch is chuckling around his cigarette at Hosea’s side, teetering on the brink of laughing with his entire chest. Hosea ducks his head, biting his tongue to hold back the irritation in his chest from coming out his mouth.

“Stop laughing, Mister Morgan, before I hit you again,” Susan says, looking down her nose at him. “And you, Mister van der Linde, I thought you would have set higher expectations from him."

“It’s wise to listen to women sometimes, Arthur,” Dutch calls, his voice wheezy with restraining his laughter. 

“It ain’t about listening to women - “ Arthur starts. Susan nods as if he’s made a point. 

“We’re lucky Susan is willing to take on half the work that I was doing before she was kind enough to join us,” Hosea says, all he can add. Dutch scoffs. “The least we can do is listen to her.”

“Thank you, Mister Matthews,” Susan calls. Hosea shrugs and laughs. She shakes a finger in Arthur’s face. “You had better watch yourself, Mister Morgan, or you’ll find yourself with much more washing to do.” 

“I already do my own washing!” Arthur insists. Dutch starts up laughing again enough that he puts out his cigarette. 

“And if you didn’t have someone to tell you when to wash things you would be living in squalor,” Susan says. Dutch rests his elbow on Hosea’s shoulder, still laughing. 

“Ain’t like he listens to us any better,” Dutch says to Hosea. 

“No, but we don’t take it so personally,” Hosea says. “You can’t let her do that to him.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“I mean it, Dutch,” Hosea says. 

“Sure, sure. I’ll talk to her.”

+++

“I don’t think the fish are biting,” Dutch says, reeling in his line. 

“You’ve hardly given it a chance,” Hosea says. Dutch moves over to where Hosea is standing on the ledge over the lake. 

“I’ll give it a chance later,” Dutch says, wrapping his arms around Hosea’s waist and pressing his mouth to the back of Hosea’s neck.

“Since when are you a quitter, Dutch van der Linde?” Hosea asks. Dutch rests his head on Hosea’s shoulder.

“Quite the contrary, Hosea. I’m doing exactly what I came out here for.”

“And to think I was looking forward to fishing with my best friend,” Hosea says, but he starts reeling in his line. 

Dutch takes the pole from him, lays it down on the ground, and Hosea appreciates the consideration. Dutch pulls him by the arm closer to the trees and down to the shade-sheltered grass.

“We do have to take some fish back, you know,” Hosea says. “We’re running low on food.”

“I got more important things to worry about,” Dutch says, holding Hosea’s face in his hands. 

“Sure,” Hosea says, tipping his head back away from Dutch but fingering lightly at Dutch’s buttons.

“You’re getting predictable, old man,” Dutch says. “Getting easy.”

“You’re one to talk,” Hosea says.

“Well, it’s what I do best. You said so yourself,” Dutch says. Hosea pulls him in by the hair for a kiss and Dutch pushes his hands under Hosea’s shirt, humming softly. 

Hosea expects it to be something hurried and desperate, but Dutch sets a lazy pace that Hosea happily accepts. Hosea thinks of similar days long ago, when Dutch nearly never let him rest, rarely let him slow down, and resists a laugh.

A fish leaps out of the water and the sound rouses Hosea from his half-sleep. The sun is lower now, it won’t set for a while. Hosea stretches and rolls over, the grass sticking to his skin, wrapping an arm loosely around Dutch’s waist.

“Think the fish are biting yet?” Dutch asks. 

“You been awake this whole time?” 

“Almost,” Dutch says.

“That ain’t like you,” Hosea sits up, sighs, stretches. “Don’t tell me you were thinking.”

“I oughta throw you in the lake, Hosea.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“If it wouldn’t risk our dinner, I would,” Dutch says, and he sits up and shakes out his shirt. “Let’s get fishing.”

“Sure. Least we can do to make it up to Susan,” Hosea sets to dressing himself.

“Oh, Hosea. Does it trouble you that much?”

“No. I never said it did. But I do wonder if it troubles her.”

“It don’t,” Dutch says stiffly, his words slipping like they do when he gets frustrated.

“Has she said that?” 

“She has. She knows. She don’t care. You know how it is.”

“Sure. Come on, let’s get this done,” Hosea stands up and goes to inspect his line and bait. 

“Hosea,” Dutch says, “it doesn’t have to be like this. I do want for you two to get along. And Arthur, too.”

Hosea says nothing, just casts his line into the water. 

“She’s a good woman, Dutch, I know it as well as anyone. But I reckon for as long as she’s involved with you…”

“I know,” Dutch says. “It ain’t gonna last forever.”

_Then why do it?_ Hosea wants to say. Dutch takes a cautious breath.

“It ain’t like with you. I don’t know why I…”

“I know,” Hosea says, turning to Dutch, meeting his eyes. Dutch nods. “It’s all okay, Dutch. Don’t worry about me.”

“You always say that,” Dutch says. 

“And I always mean it.” 

They fish in silence, reeling in a few sizable bluegill between the two of them. The stars are beginning to dot the sky when they finally mount their horses to go.

“Hosea,” Dutch says from behind him as they start on their way back to camp. 

“Yes?”

“Did you know you’re going grey?”

“I did,” Hosea says. He noticed it while he was shaving, a few grey and white hairs hiding among the blond. It’s nice that Dutch noticed, Hosea thinks, though he’s sure it will unleash a new flood of teasing.

“How old are you now?"

“Don’t you know that’s impolite?”

“Only to women,” Dutch says. Hosea looks over his shoulder and Dutch laughs.

+++

Dutch and Susan start truly fighting more often - a mix of flirtation and real vitriol from misunderstanding, nothing like the mutually orchestrated disputes Dutch and Hosea would start with each other. Arthur skitters away from it like a weary dog, often following Hosea on walks, usually in silence but sometimes talking back and forth about the birds or the plants.

An argument starts after a midday meal, starting with something about Dutch not listening and Susan being a nag, but escalating into something Hosea can hardly follow. Hosea rolls his eyes and rises from his seat, shaking his head. Arthur watches him with wide eyes and leaps up to follow him. Hosea collects his fishing pole and satchel, finishes his coffee in a heavy swallow that nearly sends him coughing, and starts into the trees toward the river with Arthur at his side. 

The weather is clear and pleasantly warm without being oppressive. The fish won’t be biting so much in the middle of the day, but it’s something to do while the camp is otherwise compromised. The sun is high in the sky and it lights the sparse forest up a luminous green. They walk without talking, taking turns answering the irresistible two-note songs of chickadees. 

Arthur ambles along with his hands in his pockets. He rarely fishes alongside Hosea, insisting that he just doesn’t have the sensitivities for it - Hosea doesn’t know what that means, but he doesn’t argue. He’s content to have Arthur’s company, whether Arthur is reading or talking or just sitting. Arthur’s silence is always companionable, his conversations always tender and occasionally thoughtful. 

“You think they enjoy all that?” Arthur finally asks. Hosea laughs.

“Maybe,” Hosea says, though he knows Dutch certainly does.

“They must. They always end up fucking afterward,” Arthur says. Hosea laughs again. So maybe he and Dutch have been more discreet in their patterns than they thought over the years, or maybe Arthur was just luckily oblivious. 

Hosea casts his line in the river and Arthur sits down on a rock, watching the water flow with his elbows on his folded knees. Hosea glances down at him, sees him picking at his nailbeds. 

“Say, Arthur,” Hosea starts. Arthur tips the brim of his hat back to see him. “Why aren’t you more fond of Miss Grimshaw?” It's something that Dutch has been worrying over, and Hosea suspects he knows the answer.

Arthur’s face disappears back under the brim of his hat. 

“She ain’t too nice. I know she cares, but she goes around talking like I’m dumber than I am.”

“Oh, well, we all do that.”

“She’s different."

“Because you know we don’t think you’re dumb,” Hosea says. Arthur is still hiding under his hat. He flexes his hands and stills them.

“Yeah.” 

“Well, I won’t try and make you like her. Frankly, I don’t think she cares herself what you think of her.” 

“I don’t like…she treats you strangely, too,” Arthur says softly. So maybe it _is_ to do with him after all, maybe Arthur sees more betrayal in this than Hosea does. “Dutch just lets her, too."

Hosea only hums turns back to the water, reeling in his line a bit. Nothing is biting, he doesn’t care. He wants to tell Arthur to throw some rocks in the water to busy himself but doesn’t want to acknowledge Arthur’s visible discomfort for fear of worsening it.

"Do you like her?" Arthur asks.

"She's a fine woman. And Dutch likes her."

"She don't seem to like you," Arthur says.

"I think that's just how she is,” Hosea says

“You think she’s staying?” Arthur asks. 

“I don’t know. Probably. If she’s staying with Dutch, I don’t know. But with us, maybe."

Hosea reels in his line and recasts it. Arthur takes out his knife and delicately scrapes at the habit-hardened skin around his nails, something practiced enough that Hosea has never seen him nick himself to draw blood in the process. 

“Hosea?” Arthur asks. 

“Yes, Arthur?” Hosea looks down at Arthur, finds his eyes instead of the usual brim of his hat, and looks away again.

“Why do you wait for him the way you do?” 

Hosea feels his line dip slightly and, unsure if it’s a fish or his own hand stuttering, he ignores it.

“He’s the dearest friend I got,” Hosea says. “It might make me a fool, but…"

"I understand. I think. As much as I can, I guess,” Arthur says. Hosea nods. “When do you reckon they’ll be done?”

“How bad would you say that fight this morning was?”

“Pretty bad. Didn’t you hear her?”

“No,” Hosea squints up at the sky through the trees. “I’d give it till about noon."

+++

The arguments between Dutch and Susan fade quickly, taking their shamelessness with them. Susan retreats to a tent of her own and takes to puttering around the camp acting as if the last few months had never happened. Arthur slowly seems to warm up to her, even playing cards with her. She still skirts around Hosea, and if Hosea didn’t know better he would think it a matter of embarrassment.

Dutch’s tent is now only Dutch’s tent again, and Dutch hates sleeping alone. Hosea knows this, knows he would be welcomed back warmly, but he stays on his bedroll on the ground.

Hosea is half asleep when he hears Dutch’s footsteps approaching him over the grass, too loud and too slow in his sleep-warped ears but distinctly Dutch nonetheless..

“Hey, old girl,” Dutch lowers himself to the ground next to Hosea. Hosea cracks open an eye and rolls onto his back. 

“I was nearly asleep, Dutch,” Hosea says.

“Oh, well, don’t let me disturb you then,” Dutch moves to get up.

“What do you want?” 

“Am I not allowed to see how my dearest, oldest friend is doing?” Dutch relaxes, stays seated. 

“You never _only_ want to check on me,” Hosea says.

“Hosea, please do me the kindness of thinking better of me,” Dutch says. 

“Dutch, I’m trying to sleep. Say what you came to say or go to bed yourself.” 

“I’ll go to bed if you come with me.”

"Is that the best you can do? That's hardly a proposition." 

"It's an _invitation,_ Hosea." 

"It's a condition, is what it is.

“I’ll gladly sit here and talk all night, then,” Dutch says. Hosea laughs. 

“Giving yourself away now? I thought you were a better businessman than this.” 

“Hosea, I’m too tired for this. Are you coming with me or not?”

Hosea hums as if he’s pondering it, as if they don’t both know the answer. He looks up at the sky, at the clouds moving over the stars. 

“It _does_ look like rain,” Hosea says thoughtfully. Dutch shakes his head and stands up, offering Hosea his hand in an exasperated motion. 

“Let’s go, old man,” Dutch says. 

“Don’t undo all your hard work so fast now, Dutch,” Hosea says, but he pulls himself up by Dutch’s hand anyway.

Hosea wakes up with his face between Dutch's shoulders, an arm over his waist. The sun is just starting to light up the tent. He can hear Arthur moving around, his morning steps shuffling around camp. Hosea listens to him attempt to quietly make coffee, then say good morning to each of the horses by name.

"Scuse me, Miss Grimshaw, you seen Hosea this morning?" Arthur asks, and there's a wry amusement in his tone. He knows just where Hosea is, and Susan, the wise woman she is, apparently won't give him the satisfaction of answering his question aloud. Maybe now that things are as they were Arthur will warm up to her some, or thaw at the very least. 

Hosea stifles a chuckle that rouses Dutch. He rolls onto his back and looks sleepily at Hosea, a look of pleased drowsy surprise on his face, his hair falling in every direction.

There's a rap at the tentpole. 

"Yes?" Hosea calls.

“Hosea. Wasn’t we going fishing this morning?" Arthur asks. 

"Since when does he want to go fishing?" Dutch whispers. Hosea puts a hand over Dutch's face. 

"If you want to, sure, just gimme a minute," Hosea says. 

“Nah, that's okay, Hosea. Think today’s a better day for hunting." 

“Alright, Arthur. Good luck."

His footsteps move away. Dutch mouths at Hosea's palm until Hosea removes it, wiping his hand on Dutch's shirt. Dutch grumbles and Hosea wraps an arm around him again, kissing his cheek, his ear, his neck. 

“Well, you're being awfully nice, Hosea. What's going on?" Dutch asks quietly.

Hosea squeezes at the softness of Dutch's waist, just above his hip, because Hosea knows it annoys him. Dutch squirms.

"I would say that I missed you but it would go right to your head," Hosea says. Dutch scoffs.

"You never lost me," Dutch says. 

"Mm, no. But you did get distracted," Hosea reaches up and smooths Dutch's hair from his face, loosely twisting the ends in his fingers. 

"You always have me, Hosea," Dutch says quietly. Hosea kisses Dutch's chin, runs his fingers over the stubble on his jaw. “If nothing else, I know we got each other."

"Sure. I know." 

"I missed _you_ ," Dutch says. 

“I’ve been here," Hosea says. 

“And I’m glad for it."

+++

They set up camp a couple miles outside some quaint town that seems too delicate to be real, the kind frequented by people moving west with no time to spare. Dutch tells them that they’re going to stay a while, at least until they wear out their welcome. Hosea doesn’t mind - they haven’t been in one place in some time and it’s wearing them all out, especially Arthur. 

The town is nice, and no one is particularly suspicious of them. Travelers pass through from all over, some in much finer clothes than others, and it makes their work easy. The passers-through are easy to swindle and easier to rob, and all of them expect to be robbed, making them less inclined to go looking for a perpetrator. 

Without any of them truly realizing, bedrolls become tents and camp becomes home, for now.

Dutch and Susan prove to be better friends than lovers. When Dutch and Arthur refuse to play dominoes with Hosea, Susan steps in. Hosea doesn’t like Susan's harshness or her self-importance, but Dutch enjoys her, and she carries her weight, and she plays dominoes, so Hosea doesn’t mind her staying. 

Arthur takes to disappearing into town at night, something Dutch gently teases him for. Arthur straightens up one day instead of shaking his head under the brim of his hat as is his usual response.

“Lotta nerve, Dutch. I know what you and Hosea get up to while I’m gone,” he shoots back. Dutch lets out a laugh, Hosea stifles his own.

“You _wish_ that you knew,” Dutch says.

“I wish that I didn’t,” Susan calls from behind them, perched on a fallen log at the fire and cleaning her pistol. She offers Hosea a wink, he shakes his head, looking back to Arthur.

“Are you seeing somebody, Arthur?” Hosea asks. Arthur groans.

“I guess,” he stiffly admits. 

“Do you have enough money?” Hosea asks. Arthur tenses up. “Not like that. Do you have enough money to treat somebody?"

“Yeah.”

“Here,” Dutch fishes into his pocket and finds a folded stack of bills, picks a few loose. “Take this, too.” 

“No, Dutch, you don’t have to - “

“I want to. You go have fun."

Arthur blinks down at the money and hesitantly puts it in his pocket. 

"Thanks, Dutch."

"My pleasure, son," Dutch says. Arthur nods his goodbyes and heads for his horse. 

They listen to him leave and Dutch laughs to himself.

“He is a fine young man," Dutch says. 

"That he is," Hosea agrees. “Hey, do you wanna go fishing?”

“It would be a pleasure, dear Hosea.”

1882

"Mister Kilgore," Dutch hands a letter to Hosea, waving it between his face and his newspaper until Hosea takes it, "Mister Kilgore," he holds one out to Susan, then extends one with his other hand to Arthur, "and...Mister Kilgore." 

"Thanks, Dutch," Arthur murmurs. 

"Looks like it's from your dear girl Eliza," Dutch says, lowering himself to the ground and leaning against Hosea's legs where Hosea sits on a log. Hosea looks up at Arthur over the top of his newspaper, watches him carefully open the letter and read it over with his furrowed brow. His face pales, his eyebrows draw closer together. 

“Everything alright, Arthur?” Hosea asks. Arthur doesn’t move. Hosea watches him a moment longer and returns to his newspaper. 

Arthur softly clears his throat. Dutch stirs and lifts his head from where it had been tipped back on Hosea’s knee. 

“She’s uh…Eliza. She’s having a baby, I guess,” Arthur finally says. Hosea lowers the paper and Dutch swats it away from where Hosea rested it on his head. 

“Yours?” Dutch asks.

“Why else would she be writing to me?” Arthur says dryly. Dutch rolls his eyes.

“Well, congratulations to you, Arthur,” Susan says, sincerely, not looking up from her sewing. Arthur ignores her. 

“Did she say when?” Hosea asks.

“The letter’s old, I really…I don’t...I oughta go see her,” Arthur says with a sigh. Hosea braces himself for a comment from Susan, but she says nothing. 

“It’s the right thing to do,” Dutch says, but his voice is stiff. Hosea digs a knee into his shoulder.

“We’ll be here when you get back. Wait till morning, at least.”

Arthur just turns back to the letter.

“How're you feeling?” Hosea lowers himself to the ground next to Dutch at the fire. Dutch offers him his cigarette.

“Thoughtful. And you?”

“The same as ever,” Hosea says. Dutch leans into him, dropping his head onto Hosea’s shoulder. Hosea passes him back his cigarette and shifts to put his arm loosely behind Dutch, resting his cheek against Dutch's hair. 

Out of the immeasurable quiet, Arthur stirs in his tent and gets up, comes to drop himself down on Dutch's other side. 

"Arthur," Hosea acknowledges. Dutch looks over at him and straightens up, 

"Something wrong, son?" Dutch asks. 

Arthur stares at the fire. Dutch puts a heavy hand on Arthur's back. 

"I don't wanna leave," Arthur says softly. "I wanna stay with you two." 

"It's just a few days, Arthur. Maybe a couple weeks," Dutch says. 

"No, I mean, what if she asks me to stay? For good." 

Dutch stiffens, turns his face away from Arthur. Dutch could easily say what he's likely holding back - _this is your real family, Arthur_ , and so on - and Arthur would obey it like a divine commandment. Hosea watches Dutch's averted eyes. 

"Ain't it the right thing to do?" Arthur asks into the silence. 

"That's something you're gonna have to decide for yourself," Hosea finally says, and Dutch exhales. Hosea can see the apprehension in Dutch's shoulders. Arthur nods, watching the fire. 

The conversation ends there, and Arthur gradually lowers himself to the ground, curling in on himself by the fire and falling asleep. It's easy to forget Arthur's youth until these moments that brim with his inexperience and loneliness, until he falls asleep on the bare ground. Hosea covers him with a blanket.

“He’ll be back,” Dutch says softly as Hosea sits down behind him, carefully digs his thumb into the perpetually stiff muscle in Dutch’s back.

“Sure,” Hosea says confidently, and Dutch leans into Hosea’s hand.

+++

Dutch frets unceasingly from the moment Arthur rides out of camp. He makes endless big plans that he gives up on just as quickly as they come to him, follows Hosea fishing as often as he can, drives Susan to near madness with his fussing about anything and everything. Hosea tries to distract him and he accepts none of it.

“Regardless of what happens, you’ll hear from him somehow, Dutch,” Hosea says, though he feels in his bones that Arthur will be back and stay back.

“He’s a young man, they go off on these adventures sometimes,” Susan says. 

“I know,” Dutch says each time, but he stays with his books, reading for hours and hardly turning the pages. 

+++

Arthur finds them again a few weeks later, happy enough to see Dutch and Hosea that he embraces them the moment he gets off his horse. He looks older than he did when he left, both more thoughtful and more frightened, in a way he wasn’t before. He doesn’t talk much about anything at first - despite Dutch and Susan’s prodding he only mentions that Eliza had had her baby by the time he got to her, that his name is Isaac, and that she had told him to go back but that he promised to send her anything she needed and visit when he could. 

Dutch is thrilled that Arthur came back, as if it surprises him. Hosea is relieved as well, but he says nothing about it.

Hosea invites him hunting a few days after his return, joking that he needs to make up for lost time. Hosea invites Dutch, who seems to consider it a moment before he declines and turns back to his book. 

They don’t talk much as they walk. Arthur mentions some wild horses he saw on his way back. 

"Didn't think a baby'd be so small," Arthur says absently while they walk through the brush. 

"No?" Hosea asks. It hadn’t occurred to him that Arthur may have never held a baby or seen one in any personal capacity. 

"No. He's real small. Fits in both my hands," Arthur says, miming the act of holding a baby in front of him to demonstrate his size.

"Does he look like you, do you reckon?" Hosea asks, wondering if Arthur had even thought to consider it.

"I can't tell. He don't look like much at all, just looks like a baby. If I had to guess I’d say he looks more like his momma."

"He has handsome parents, the lucky boy," Hosea says, and Arthur scoffs, "he'll be a handsome fella when he's bigger.”

“I did draw him, so I could show you all. I can show you later.” 

“Sure, Arthur. That’d be nice."

"I wish I could..." Arthur begins, and Hosea stops walking to listen, "I dunno. I wish I could be there. But she don't want me there, said it'd only make it harder later. And then you, and _Dutch_ , well…" Hosea watches him, waits for elaboration. "You're all I really got, far as I can tell."

“Sometimes that’s the way of things,” Hosea nods, starts walking again.

“Did you ever…” Arthur trails off, watching the ground as if he’s looking for a track, “did you ever have anybody outside of all this?” 

“No,” Hosea says, “once I started running with Dutch, that was that.” 

“Really?”

“Really. I ran with some others before, I’ve mentioned them a bit, maybe. But nobody’s ever been like Dutch. You know that, though, with all his reminiscing. It’s been however many years and I trust it’ll be many more, assuming we both live that long.”

“I reckon you’ve got a while yet,” Arthur says. 

“I hope so."

1883

They find a steady stream of coaches to rob along a road through the hills, always from those companies with familiar names that follow them throughout the country. They follow the road up and down for miles, camping where they please, making easy money along the way. Arthur proudly sends it to Eliza when he doesn’t deliver it to her himself, and Dutch and Hosea leave their own takes scattered throughout the towns they pass through. 

Arthur settles down. He stops getting in fights quite so often, and Hosea realizes one night when Arthur comes back late that he can no longer remember the last time he had to get Arthur out of jail. 

Dutch seems at ease, more comfortable than he’s been in a long time, seemingly satisfied with his finances and his makeshift family. He doesn’t seem quite so scared, doesn’t hang on to Hosea like it keeps him afloat, doesn’t make his overly-ambitious plans to prove something to himself. 

Susan falls into her place and settles into it, and Arthur fully lowers his hackles toward her and she takes up playing dominoes with Hosea most nights. 

They get an especially sweet take on a hot summer day, and Dutch declares it cause for celebration. 

“We got a good future ahead of us, gentlemen,” Dutch says. Hosea throws an arm over Dutch's shoulders and Dutch pulls Arthur into a one-armed embrace. “And Miss Grimshaw.” 

Susan holds up her bottle in acknowledgment.

“It’s an honor to be here for it,” she says. “But I’ll leave you boys be.” She goes to play cards by herself, an activity she reserves for when she determines things to be too masculine for her company, though they all insist that she would fit in just fine. 

The three of them banter over their drinks until Arthur claps them both on the shoulders and goes to play cards with Susan, leaving Dutch and Hosea at the fire with a bottle between them. Dutch swings a leg into Hosea’s lap and looks at him, his face soft and amused. 

“What?” Hosea asks. Dutch takes Hosea’s face in his hands and kisses him softly and briefly. 

“Look how far we’ve come, Hosea,” Dutch says, bumping his forehead against Hosea’s as he leans back, throwing his other leg into Hosea’s lap. Hosea looks at him for a long moment, pushes the curl of hair hanging over his forehead back into his hair. “And we have so much left to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love hearing peoples thoughts and it's cool to know if people are still reading. comments are much appreciated and i assure you i'm more scared of you than you are of me. 
> 
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	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a little longer to get up, i've been wrangling a million things and was sick for a few days. anyway! here it is. hope you enjoy. 
> 
> SPOILERS: backstory reveals otherwise only found in rdr2 chapter 6, maybe also chapter 3
> 
> ~16k words

1885

The tiny frontier town unfolding before them, freshly propped up on posts still glittering with sap, feels somehow doomed. Damnation lingers in the pine posts and waxed windows, and Hosea is sure that when they leave it behind them he might finally see the sun again. It’s been a dreary, gloomy several days and each one puts more of a rattle in Hosea's chest. 

A crowd - if one could call it that, in a town so small - is gathered in the road up ahead and Arthur stands in his stirrups to see. 

“Oh, hell,” Arthur says. Dutch looks over at him. “It’s just some kid.” 

As they approach, Hosea can see a scraggly dark-haired boy straining against the grip a man in too-nice clothes has on his arm. The crowd is shouting over each other and their uproar is enough that they haven’t noticed three strange men approaching them.

“Looks like they’re gonna try and hang him,” Arthur says, a note of disgust in his voice. 

“So much for civilization,” Dutch says. 

“Wonder what he did,” Arthur says. Hosea sighs and shifts in his saddle. 

“Doesn’t matter. He’s just a kid,” Hosea says, “we oughta do something."

“I was thinking the same,” Dutch says, and Arthur nods. Dutch chews his lip for a short moment and nods to himself. “Alright, you two hang back a bit and look important. Arthur, you come up when I call you. But don’t you say nothing.”

Hosea and Arthur settle back in their saddles. Dutch trots his horse up to the crowd and puts on a voice of distress, asking what’s going on. Hosea can’t hear what the people say, clamoring over each other, but he hears Dutch claiming to be the kid’s uncle come looking for him to take him home as he’s been missing so long, always troublesome, but who could blame him, what with a dying father and drunken mother. Hosea and Arthur duck their heads, hiding their laughter about it. It’s a wonder people fall for it, Hosea thinks, given how theatrical Dutch can be. 

Even from the distance Hosea can see the kid’s eyes are working fast under a mess of black hair, going from Dutch to Arthur and Hosea to the people around him. 

“Don’t look like he’s catching on,” Arthur says quietly. “How dumb can he be?”

“He’ll catch on. Hush.” 

The kid is still straining against the large man holding him.

“Please, let me take him home to his family,” Dutch pleads, his voice cracking naturally in all the right places. “I don’t want this to get ugly.”

The people look from Dutch to Hosea and Arthur.

“Ladies and gentlemen, he’s just a boy. His family has sent us a long way to find him and we’re lucky we got here when we did. You don’t want to lay your foundations in killing a child, do you?” 

“That’s a good one,” Hosea says quietly. Arthur chuckles. 

Hosea can’t hear what the large man says to Dutch, but Dutch pleads once more to be able to take the kid home. The man reluctantly walks the kid over to Dutch’s horse. Dutch turns and looks to Arthur, gestures for him to come over. Arthur slowly rides over, leans in his saddle to extend a hand to the kid, and Hosea can see even from a distance that the kid’s eyes are burning with angry fear. He takes Arthur's hand in some desperate attempt at survival and Arthur pulls him up onto his horse behind him. 

Dutch thanks the crowd profusely, promises to keep the kid out of trouble, and turns back to Hosea, nodding for Arthur to follow him. 

“Let’s get on outta here,” Dutch says to Hosea, and Hosea turns his horse and falls in with the two of them. Dutch turns to the kid, sitting stiffly behind Arthur. “I know you wanna jump off that horse, son, but if you stay you’ll at least get a meal out of this. There ain’t nowhere to go for miles besides this lousy little town.” The kid’s eyes flicker between the three of them, focusing on Arthur, recognizing a young face. Hosea and Arthur nudge their horses into a trot alongside Dutch and leave the town behind them on the road. 

Dutch turns in his saddle and introduces himself and Hosea and Arthur, asks the kid’s name. The kid just stares at him warily until Dutch turns around. Hosea catches Dutch's eye. 

“You can’t resist,” Hosea says softly. 

“What was I supposed to do, Hosea? It was your idea in the first place,” Dutch answers quietly.

“Oh, I know you were thinking it. And I ain’t complaining. I know you.” 

“And I’m glad for it. You know, some homesteaders caught him stealing and brought him to town to hang him. Folk these days, Hosea,” Dutch sighs, thinks for a moment. “Let’s get this boy home."

They return to camp and find Susan with her hands on her hips, looking at the kid as if the three of them brought home a mangy dog. 

“What’s this?” Susan asks. Dutch helps the kid off Arthur’s horse. The kid looks about ready to bolt. Dutch keeps a hand on his shoulder. And there it is, Hosea thinks. Another one. 

“It’s a boy, Miss Grimshaw,” Dutch says. 

“Well, I can see that. What’s his story?” 

“He was about to be hanged by some ridiculous homesteaders in that little town out that way. I wasn’t just going to sit there and watch.”

“Well of course not,” Susan says. “Where does he belong?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll figure out where he belongs and what he needs. Can you get him some food?”

Susan grimaces and turns away with a whirl of her skirt. Dutch turns to Arthur.

“Arthur, can you - “

“My _name_ is John,” the kid says suddenly, like he’s throwing a punch with his small, raw voice. He shrugs Dutch’s hand from his shoulder. “My name is John Marston. Don’t talk about me like I ain’t here.”

“I’m sorry, John,” Hosea says. Dutch chuckles softly, looking impressed. Hosea looks at him, offers him a warning in his stare. 

“What was they trying to hang you for?” Arthur asks. He says it like it’s been itching at him for hours, and it probably has. 

“Stealing,” John says.

“Stealing _what_?“ Arthur asks. 

“It don’t matter,” the kid says. 

“You got a home, John?” Hosea asks.

“Why do you think I was stealing?” 

“Right,” Hosea says. 

“What do you all want from me?” John asks.

“We want to help, son,” Dutch says. 

The kid looks up at Dutch, his eyes hard. “I can handle myself. I’m twelve years old. And I already killed a man once.”

“I believe it,” Dutch says. “But that ain’t something to be proud of. You can stay with us, if you want. It’s your choice. But if you do, you won’t have to worry about killing nobody, or sleeping with your eyes open, or being hungry.”

John looks from Dutch to Hosea, then to Arthur. Arthur shrugs at him, seeing something in his gaze that Hosea does not.

“What do I gotta do?”

“Nothing,” Dutch says. The kid looks to Arthur.

“Been here since I was about your age,” Arthur finally says. “They ain’t made me do nothing, except for let you on my horse just now.” 

“Arthur, please,” Hosea says. Arthur shrugs. “We got food, John. You can stay here until you decide what you’re better off doing, if that’s what suits you.”

John stares at them, lowers his shoulders. 

“Fine,” he says. Hosea looks up at Dutch, sees an uneasy relief in his eyes. 

“Let’s get you something to eat, then,” Hosea says. 

Hosea gives the kid an extra bedroll and compromises with Arthur to let John share his tent, but John refuses, to Arthur’s relief. Arthur tosses him a change of clothes, all too big but better than what he has on. John takes them hesitantly, but doesn’t change. Hosea leaves him alone to settle in near the fire, checks on Susan and Arthur, and retires to his tent to read.

“That poor kid,” Dutch says quietly as he sits down on his bedroll, having made his nightly rounds around camp. Hosea lays his book facedown on his chest and looks up at Dutch in the lanternlight. 

“I know. He can hardly blink without thinking somebody’s gonna come after him.” 

“Hope he won’t run off,” Dutch says. 

“Oh, I don’t reckon he will.”

“Arthur says we’ve gone soft.” 

“Haven’t we?” Hosea asks. Dutch looks down at him, and for the first time Hosea can remember, Dutch looks truly grown, simply a man instead of a young man now. They've slowed down - in their moving, their work, their lives - and Dutch seems to have finally found the time to age. It suits him.

“Maybe we have,” Dutch says. Hosea raps Dutch on the arm with the back of his hand. 

“Nothing wrong with that,” Hosea says. 

“No, I suppose not."

+++

John keeps to himself. He cooperates nervously but resists any attention, skirting around Hosea and Dutch whenever he can. He seems the least afraid of Susan, maybe because she doesn’t try to get close to him the way Dutch and Hosea do. He hangs onto Arthur, the closest thing to another boy in camp, and Arthur only tolerates him. Hosea can see it all eating at Dutch, who tries so hard to veil his worry over John’s refusal to be spoiled and cared for. Hosea advises patience, reminds him of Arthur’s own reluctance, but Dutch stays unconvinced and throws his nerves into trying to wrangle the boy into some kind of competence. 

John, though he keeps himself out of trouble, is often difficult for the sake of being difficult, something Dutch finds oddly promising. He doesn't settle into Dutch's ideas the way that Arthur had, doesn't adopt Dutch's cause quite as easily, and Dutch fondly takes it as a challenge. 

Arthur catches Hosea and Dutch alone at the fire one night and softly tells him that the kid just doesn’t like men much, that he told Arthur about a bottle-bound father who had been cruel to John until his death put John in some orphanage in Chicago. So they quiet themselves, gentle themselves, try their hardest to contain their arguing. And slowly John comes around, starts talking more over meals, starts listening a little more attentively, and Dutch acts as if he’s discovered warm water.

“Alright, John,” Dutch says over dinner, and John looks up from the food he’s desperately shoveling into his mouth. “Am I right in assuming you’re staying here? Seeing as you ain’t left yet.”

Hosea watches Dutch’s face, watches Arthur freeze at Dutch’s side and stare at John. 

“I guess, yeah,” John says. Dutch’s eyes sparkle but he wisely contains himself. “Ain’t like I got a choice.”

“You always got a choice, son,” Dutch says. 

“Then I guess I’m choosing."

“Cause for celebration, then, don’t you think?” Dutch asks, looking to Hosea and then to Arthur. Arthur shrugs. 

“Sure,” Hosea says. John looks between them from under his hair. Arthur gives Hosea a quick look of exasperation and entertainment before he returns to his food. 

Susan and Dutch get up and return with a small crate of candy and canned fruit and a few fresh but lightly bruised fruits. Dutch sets it down at Hosea’s feet and Hosea pokes through it, finds the inevitable bottle of whiskey, and takes it out, setting it on the ground behind him. Dutch looks at him puzzled for a moment and then nods in understanding. 

“Now, John,” Dutch says, opening a can of strawberries and offering it to him. John watches him in anticipation. "You stick with us, you _stick with us_ , you understand? Around here we take care of each other. As long as we’re doing that, we’re living and we’re living right.”

John stares at Dutch for a moment and nods, all twelve of his years showing in the young thoughtfulness on his face. Arthur catches Hosea’s attention and rolls his eyes behind Dutch. Hosea resists a smile. 

“And you’re gonna learn how to read and write,” Dutch says, sitting down next to Hosea. A look of annoyance and terror flashes across John’s dark face. “When you can read and write the world can’t stop you, son. They’ll try and fool men like us, thinking we’re uneducated. But we ain’t. We don’t need civilization to teach us nothing. A literate man holds power no one can take away, John.” 

“Can I have a gun?” John asks. Arthur coughs a laugh.

“In time,” Dutch says. John looks to Hosea

"We oughta get you some clothes as well," Dutch says. John stares up at him from under his mess of dark hair. Susan nods where she sits with her own can of apricots, eating them delicately. 

"I got clothes," John says. John had fallen into their laps only in the clothes he was wearing and the three of them had offered him some of their own clothes, all too big for him on his scrawny young body. The cuffs of his pants -formerly Hosea's - are rolled up, the belt cinched tightly around his waist to hold them up, and the sleeves of his shirt - formerly Arthur's - are pushed up to his elbows but slide back down with ease. 

"You got one set of clothes that fits," Dutch says. “A man needs real clothes. 

"I like these clothes," John says, simple and defensive. Dutch shoots Hosea a pleading look. 

"You can keep them," Hosea offers, "but we can get you some of your own, too. Something that fits for when you need it." 

John seems to contemplate it. He fiddles with the long sleeve of his shirt that keeps sliding down his arms. Hosea had tried to show him how to cuff the sleeves to keep them up.

“You can’t go on jobs with us looking like you just crawled outta the gutter,” Dutch says. 

“And Miss Grimshaw'll be forcing you into good clothes sooner rather than later,” Hosea adds. Susan shakes her head where she sits and Hosea offers her a wink.

"He's just gonna outgrow it," Arthur adds, almost absently, but Hosea sees the knowing glint in Arthur’s eye, "he might as well keep what he's got." 

John bristles at the commentary and pulls his sleeves to his wrists. 

"I'll get new clothes. But I'm keeping these,” John says. 

"That's fine," Dutch says. Hosea laughs to himself and sets to opening a can of peaches.

+++

John resists any guidance offered to him by Hosea and Dutch but - never without a fight - he listens to Arthur and follows his lead, as much as Arthur may torment him in the process. Arthur seems to recognize it and resigns himself to setting himself as an example to John. John insists on having Arthur teach him how to shoot, all but accusing Dutch of being a poor teacher of marksmanship, and Arthur accepts the request with surprising willingness. 

John finally moves his bedroll from the fire to Arthur’s tent, and the nightmares that he wakes up from shouting grow less frequent. When they do disturb him, waking everyone in camp, Hosea finds Arthur already awake with him, looking tired but understanding. Hosea never mentions it to Arthur - to acknowledge it aloud would embarrass Arthur severely - but he does tell Dutch, who nods his approval warmly.

Hosea takes John out with him, and John tries but becomes quickly frustrated with everything from fishing and hunting to foraging and trapping. Hosea doesn’t mind. John lets himself be taught to read, though it frustrates and exhausts him no matter who tries to help him. He proves so difficult to teach that Dutch and Hosea frequently take turns each day teaching him, sometimes enlisting Arthur or Susan for help as well. Despite John’s frustration, he does learn, even if his execution is often less than half-perfect. It’s the effort that counts, Hosea tells him, though it doesn’t seem to lessen his irritation.

For all his defenses, John is a charming boy in his own right, and Hosea feels quietly fond of him. When Arthur leaves to see Eliza and Isaac, John hangs around Hosea and Dutch and watches them carefully, asking question after question. He sleeps at the fire when Arthur is gone, saying he hates to sleep alone, and when he wakes up from nightmares Hosea pretends to have woken up on his own and join him to sit at the fire in silence until John finally falls back asleep. 

John starts to argue with Arthur openly, needling each other to the point of fighting. Arthur has been grown for some time, but readily falls back into some boyish sense of rivalry just at the sight of John and his often-indignant expression. It annoys Susan but rattles Dutch, and Hosea tries talking Dutch down from getting involved more than he tries to break up the fights himself. Where Dutch tries to stop the arguments, Hosea calls them over and sends them fishing or hunting together. It’s rarely productive, but they come back quietly and give Dutch and Hosea and Susan some precious quiet time. 

Somewhere in the midst of it all, they go from _Arthur and John_ to simply _the boys._ Dutch finally seems satisfied, pleased with himself, almost too thrilled at the prospect of having tamed a wild boy - if he fights with Arthur but still settles in at their fire every night, then he’s made himself at home. Dutch beams about it and Hosea teases him for it until he humbles himself.

+++

They've stayed far enough south to avoid the harsher parts of winter, but winter finds them anyway and the snow starts to fall lightly, hardly sticking to the ground. It makes for a few sleepy days, and even Dutch resigns himself to resting through the bout of winter weather. Hosea hardly sees Susan or Arthur and John outside of the time they spend huddled around meals and coffee at the fire. They discuss going into the nearest town and holing up in an inn until the worst of the cold passes, but they decide it’s not worth the trouble.

Hosea comes back from an unproductive hunt with Arthur, and, with the early-setting sun lowering behind the woolen sheet of clouds, he retires for the night. Dutch is sitting up on his bedroll, reading one of his heavy books. Hosea secures the tent flap behind him and throws himself down next to Dutch, curling around him and resting his head on Dutch's shoulder. Dutch closes his book.

"How are you doing?" Dutch leans back into him.

"Cold," Hosea says. 

“Yeah, I can hear you whistling and wheezing,” Dutch says. 

“I’m fine,” Hosea says. He truly hadn’t noticed his breathing. He quickly shoves his hands under Dutch's layers to splay his hold hands over Dutch's back, his skin hot even through his union suit, and Dutch jumps, looking back at Hosea, scandalized. 

"How dare you, Hosea Matthews," Dutch says. "I would _never_ do that to you." 

“Sure you would. You find your own ways to torment me, anyway." 

" _Torment_ you?" 

"That's what I said." 

"I think I'll let you stay cold, Hosea," Dutch says, shrugging Hosea off him. Hosea lays back on their mess of indistinguishable bedrolls and blankets. 

"There you go again." 

"That is not _torment_ , Hosea, it's retribution." 

"Retribution is often torment, is it not? And I thought you didn't believe in revenge."

"I don't. But I do believe in equality," Dutch leans over and puts his own cold fingers against Hosea's neck, making him squirm. He lies down on his elbows, kisses Hosea on the mouth. Hosea leans up into it, feels Dutch blindly trying to navigate through the layers between them.

"You're gonna have to warm your hands up before you go touching me," Hosea says. 

"That's a bullet you'll have to take, then," Dutch buries his own cold hands under Hosea's coat and kisses his jaw. Hosea can feel Dutch's cold fingers through his shirt and laughs. Dutch sighs into Hosea's neck. His nose is cold. "We don't do much alone these days, do we?" 

They don't, but it doesn't occur to Hosea nearly as much as it does to Dutch. Dutch is the one who suggests hunting trips, hauls Hosea into town for the night, leads him into the shadows to leave Arthur to wrangle John and Susan to wrangle the both of them. It's not as frequent as it was, nor is it quite as hungry, but Hosea doesn't mind. 

"Well, if you weren't so loud it wouldn't have to be so much trouble," Hosea says. Dutch grumbles something in his defense and Hosea reaches up, pulls lightly at Dutch's hair, and he groans too loudly into Hosea's neck. 

"Alright, I get it," Dutch says. Hosea laughs and Dutch looks up at him, looking pleased and soft around the eyes, a look reserved for when he manages to pull a laugh from Hosea. "I'll be quiet."

"How many times have I heard that?" 

"Hosea, I will find ways to torment you - “

“You’ve already found them all, dear,” Hosea says. 

“And it’s been a pleasure,” Dutch says. Hosea tucks his hands back into Dutch’s coat. 

“Arthur said he’s been teaching John to play cards. I figure if we ain’t been able to hear them fighting about it then we must be fine,” Hosea says softly. Dutch laughs, a rumble Hosea feels against his own chest, and removes his hands from Hosea’s coat and puts them lightly on Hosea’s face, no longer icy.

“Warm enough?” Dutch asks.

“Sure.” 

1886 

Arthur comes back with a tip about a coach, and Dutch sets to making his plans. Just Hosea, Dutch, and Arthur, a quick and easy job. As has become routine, Dutch assigns Susan and John to hold down the camp while they’re gone. Hosea can hear John pestering Arthur about coming along, saying something about how Dutch said he could go on this job. Arthur’s voice becomes more annoyed and panicky with each retort. Arthur holds his time with Dutch and Hosea sacred, and Hosea would feel awful to deprive him of it even if it was feasible. 

Dutch appears in camp again, fastening his gun belt, and John trots up to him like a hungry dog.

“Dutch, you said I could come this time but Arthur’s saying you said no. I can help," John insists.

"Doing what, exactly?" Dutch asks. 

"I dunno! But I could help." 

"I already said no," Dutch says simply. Arthur looks relieved. 

"If I was in the city all normal like I'd be working already."

"Sure," Hosea says, "doing all sorts of work bound to get you killed or maimed." 

"Hosea's right. The difference between here and the city is that here you got folk looking out for you." 

John chews his lip and stares through the space between them. 

"Bet you was letting Arthur go fighting and robbing when he was my age." 

Dutch looks quickly at Hosea, caught in a trap. They _had_ let Arthur come with them sometimes, but he had been older, he had been doing all the same things on his own before they even found him. But they had convinced him to stay put just as many times, at least until he could pass as a man. 

"They wasn't," Arthur tosses into the silence, gruff and simple. “Now shut up, Marston, and stay outta the way. Someone’s gotta watch camp.”

“What about Miss Grimshaw?” John asks. Hosea looks over to where she sits cleaning her gun. She catches Hosea’s eye and shakes her head.

“Don’t bring me into this,” Susan calls. 

“I wouldn’t dare,” Hosea calls back. 

“Dutch _said_ I could start coming along soon,” John says. 

“Did he now?” Hosea looks up at Dutch, who shrugs guiltily. 

“Not this time,” Dutch says. “And if you keep asking, John, you’ll end up waiting even longer.”

+++

John and Arthur start bickering one morning when the coffee is hardly finished, something about Arthur not taking John with him on a job. Dutch watches them over his cup, tense but intrigued. Susan pointedly ignores them while she sips her coffee, the same way she ignores Dutch and Hosea whenever she isn’t concerned. 

“Boys,” Hosea calls out over their barrages of thoughtless insults. If they were only a little more creative, it wouldn’t be so hard to listen to. Every fight is the same, and Hosea could write a script of it for how often he’s heard it. 

Arthur groans in exasperation and turns to walk away, but John grabs the sleeve of his jacket and hits him sloppily in the chest. Arthur, stronger and calmer, grips John’s arm hard enough that John yelps, trying to move him away. John lets out a frustrated noise and hangs on Arthur’s sleeve like a cat, shoving at him with his other hand. Dutch gets up from his seat and stiffly walks toward them.

“Dutch, let them just...“ Hosea gives up, watches Dutch pull the two of them apart. 

Arthur steps back and stubbornly crosses his arms as John takes an instinctive swing at Dutch, landing a sloppy hit at Dutch’s collar. Dutch is unfazed, but Arthur’s face flares and Hosea sets down his coffee and rises to his feet, walking stiffly to the three of them. He plants a hand on Arthur’s arm just as Arthur starts to push past Dutch toward John again, and Arthur freezes.

“That’s _enough_ ,” Dutch says. 

“You’re just gonna let him - “ Arthur starts. 

“I said it’s _enough_ ,” Dutch snaps. He puts a hand on John’s shoulder, guiding him a few steps back. Arthur’s jaw stays set in inarticulate frustration and John’s eyes flicker with anger and embarrassment under his hair. “Whatever job you had, Arthur, forget it.” 

“What am I supposed to do?” Arthur throws up his arms. 

"You’re going fishing. _Both_ of you,” Hosea says. Dutch nods, as if it has been his plan along. 

“It ain’t even time. The fish ain’t biting right now,” Arthur says. He looks to Dutch, eyes begging for support. Arthur will fight with Dutch, but never Hosea. 

“I don’t care what you do, but you two had _both_ better come back with something to eat,” Dutch says. “We all need to eat today, don’t we?"

Arthur groans and shakes Hosea’s hand from his arm, straightens his jacket that John had pulled off his shoulder. 

“Fine,” Arthur sighs, walking away toward his things. Dutch lets go of John’s shoulder and John goes to stand near Arthur, arms crossed, eyes down. “Come on, Marston, get your shit. Let’s go."

Dutch watches them for a moment and returns to the fire, picking up his coffee and sitting with his elbows on his knees.

“You could have sent them to do their washing,” Susan says dryly. 

“There will always be more chances for that.” Hosea says. She clicks her tongue and swirls the coffee in her cup.

Hosea stiffly sits down next to Dutch, gauging the frustrated concern in Dutch’s posture.

“They’ll be fine,” Hosea says. “You know how boys are.” 

“I do,” Dutch says. 

“If we’ll be having dinner tonight, however,” Hosea sips his coffee, “that’s another story.”

Dutch laughs, bumps his shoulder against Hosea’s.

“Well, _we_ could always go fishing," Dutch says. 

Hosea hums, leans his shoulder into Dutch for a moment, knocks their knees together.

“Sure.” 

John and Arthur do come back with a squirrel and a few fish, but no longer arguing. John’s face is sunburned and exhausted.

“We’ll go into town tomorrow,” Hosea says as he cleans the fish, trying not for the first time to teach Arthur and John how to do so without losing quite so much of the meat. Neither of them seem to have the patience for it.

“We’d have more if John here - “

“Shut _up,_ Arthur,” John snaps. Dutch chuckles where he sits with his book held facedown on one knee as he watches the three of them. 

“This is a fine amount of fish,” Hosea says, even though it isn’t, “you boys did well. Thank you.” 

Hosea sees Arthur sigh and roll his eyes in his peripheral. John crosses his arms and huffs. They have more in common than they think in their irritation with Hosea and Dutch, and Hosea hides a smile as he thinks about it. 

“Did you know,” Arthur begins, loudly enough to deliberately include Dutch and Miss Grimshaw in the conversation where they sit a ways away, “that little John here can’t swim?” 

Hosea looks up at Arthur in a silent warning, but Arthur only looks stubbornly smug. John tenses up, his eyes flashing. 

“Shut up, Morgan,” John says. 

“Gonna have to work on your vocabulary, Marston, I think that’s about all you’ve said to me all day,” Arthur drawls. John makes a frustrated sound, bristling but restraining himself admirably. 

“John, why don’t you come over here?” Dutch calls. John grumbles something and pushes past Arthur and goes to sit at Dutch’s side. Hosea looks over at them, sees John half-ignoring Dutch’s attempts at a reading lesson, glaring into nothing.

Arthur picks up one of the fish and produces his own knife, begins to carefully clean it, following Hosea’s patient example. 

“You two are lucky Dutch and I already ate,” Hosea says lightly, quietly. “You caught much better fish than we did, though.”

“Oh, the two of you _actually_ went fishing for once?” Arthur prods. Hosea pauses, nods in amusement. Dutch catches his eye from where he sits with John and flashes a smile.

“Arthur, I _always_ go fishing. It’s Dutch who has other plans up his sleeve. And - just for that, Arthur, you’re going into town with me tomorrow for supplies.” 

“Fine, fine,” Arthur grumbles, though Hosea knows he enjoys the errands despite his fussing. 

“We oughta get John a hat, “ Arthur says as he hitches his horse outside the general store. Hosea dismounts his horse and hitches it next to Arthur’s. The late morning sun is baking their shirts to their shoulders.

“Yeah?”

“His face was burning up when Dutch sent us fishing. He wouldn’t take my hat. Now I gotta listen to him moan about his face all the time.” 

“Then we’ll get him a hat. You know what he likes, go on ahead and pick one out for him.”

“Alone?”

“Why? You scared?”

“No, I just…fine,” Arthur says, and turns to go.

“Here,” Hosea calls him back, digging into his pocket and holding out a few bills to Arthur. Arthur looks at him, confused. “Take it. It’ll save you the embarrassment of being kind to the boy on your own."

Arthur groans and takes the money in a dramatically frustrated motion. Hosea laughs as he watches him go. 

“Say, Hosea,” Arthur starts up, his first words of their quiet ride back to camp.

“Arthur.”

"Why’s Dutch so worried about the kid leaving?” Arthur asks. 

“He was worried about you running off, too,” Hosea says simply. “It’s how he is.”

Arthur makes a sound between a scoff and a sigh. 

“Arthur, you just got him a hat. You can drop the act that you don’t like him. It doesn’t do you any favors."

“He’s alright, I guess,” Arthur says. Arthur’s shortness with John is harmless, something Hosea has to remind Dutch of frequently. “Kind of a brat."

“He ain't replacing you. Trust me on that,” Hosea says. "Sometimes I'd reckon he likes you more than he likes me." 

Arthur says nothing, stays hidden under the brim of his hat. Hosea breathes a laugh and looks back to the road. 

They ride in comfortable silence in the uncomfortable baking sun. As they hitch their horses, John ambles over to help them unload their saddlebags, putting everything away under Miss Grimshaw’s careful instruction. Hosea turns to go see Dutch in their tent and give him the cigar he pocketed from the store, but feels Arthur grab his arm. 

“Huh?”

“Just stay here a second,” Arthur says, and turns to John. “Hey, Marston!” 

“What?” John calls back from where he’s stacking cans into a crate. 

“Just come over here. Got something for you.”

John regards Arthur suspiciously and straightens up, walking over to them. Arthur undoes the buckle on his satchel.

“What?” John asks. 

“Jesus, Marston, you think I got a snake in here?”

“No,” John says, voice hard. 

“Here,” Arthur says roughly, pulling the simple black brimmed hat, from his satchel and holding it out to John. He regards it warily and Arthur shakes it at him once, emphasizing its presence. “It’s for you, kid, take it.” 

“This ain’t off a dead man, is it?” John gingerly takes it from Arthur and looks to Hosea, as if Arthur is bound to lie to him. 

“What’s it look like?” Arthur drawls.

“No,” Hosea says, “we bought it. Can’t say the money was honest, of course, but…well...Arthur picked it out. It was his idea.” Hosea hears Arthur cut off a sigh. 

John stares at the hat in his hands, his face hidden under his hair.

“Thank you,” John says softly.

“You’re welcome,” Hosea says. He lightly elbows Arthur, to no avail. 

John hesitantly puts it on and it falls over his eyes, taking his hair with it. Arthur chokes back a laugh. Hosea elbows him again.

“Looks good!” Hosea pats John on the shoulder. "You’ll grow into it. For now just tip it back a bit. It still suits you.” 

John tips it up, scowling at Arthur.

“Looking more like a scarecrow every day, Marston,” Arthur laughs. “Oughta leave you in a field somewhere."

“Don’t listen to him,” Hosea says, pushing Arthur’s arm gently with the palm of his hand, “it suits you.” 

John thanks him again, uses the hand that was poised to remove the hat to instead secure it onto his head, and walks away with his shoulders a little higher. 

+++

Hosea returns from a halfhearted rabbit hunt on a late fall night - emptyhanded but unbothered - and finds Dutch awake and reading. John and Arthur are propped against their saddles, sleeping comfortably across the fire. John is sound asleep with his head on Arthur’s shoulder, mouth open slightly. Arthur’s head is now resting on John’s head. Their ratty blankets are low on their chests. If it wouldn’t wake them up to do so Hosea would pull the blankets up around them. Susan is asleep a ways off, under her lean-to tarp she insists on setting up at every camp, no matter how short the stay.

“Hey, Dutch,” Hosea says quietly. Arthur stirs slightly but not enough to wake up entirely, blinking once at Hosea and shifting under his blanket, closing his eyes again.

“Hey,” Dutch says. Hosea kicks his bedroll open next to Dutch. Dutch taps Hosea’s leg and nods toward the boys.

“They were arguing for about an hour while you were gone. Until John finally fell asleep,” Dutch says. 

“You’d never know,” Hosea sinks down onto his bedroll. Dutch closes his book and takes Hosea’s hand, squeezing his fingers. Dutch puts out his lantern and sprawls out on his bedroll. “Hey, Dutch?”

“Hosea?” Dutch answers. Hosea leans over on his elbow and pulls Dutch in for a kiss that Dutch smiles into. “Thanks.”

“Goodnight, Dutch,” Hosea says. Dutch hums, rests his head on his arms, watching Hosea in the firelight.

“Hey, Hosea,” Dutch starts softly. Hosea turns his head to face him. 

“Huh?”

“Whatever all this is, it’s good.” 

“It is," Hosea says. 

"I reckon you could call it a family." 

"Sure," Hosea says. Dutch is right, as overly-sentimental as it may sound coming from him. Dutch had become Hosea’s family, and there was never any question about it. Naturally, it extended to Arthur and John, and even Susan - no matter the strain at times or the odd conditions of it all. Hosea feels a swell of gratitude for the love that they have so carefully cultivated and shared. Dutch has talked about it in his long ramblings, always in too many words, always too theatrical for Hosea to take it with more than a grain of salt. But he’s right - and Hosea admits it to himself. 

Hosea reaches out and takes Dutch’s hand, squeezing his fingers gently. 

Dutch breathes a laugh and shifts closer to Hosea, settling into his bedroll with their hands warmly piled between them in some tired and lazy hold. 

"My dear Hosea," Dutch says softly. Hosea hums, waits, unsure if it's one of Dutch's absent reflections or if he truly has something to say. "I could not wish for someone better to be at my side." 

“I would hope not," Hosea says, and Dutch breathes a contented laugh. 

1887 

"I got an idea," Dutch says, stretching his legs out in front of him at the fire. The light plays warmly on the trees around them, some old orchard long forgotten. “It’s a good one. Even you’ll like it, Hosea."

"And what's that?" Hosea asks, playing along. Arthur and Susan and John had long since retired, leaving them alone at the fire. Dutch puts a hand on Hosea's chest. 

"The bank in town. I think we could do it."

"Robbing it, you mean?" Hosea asks. They've never robbed a bank before - not directly - they've never had the manpower for it, nor have they had the need to rob a bank in the first place.

"Exactly. I think we could do it. You, me, Arthur.” 

"What do you know about robbing banks?" Hosea asks. 

"Enough," Dutch says. "They're practically designed to be robbed, Hosea."

"That don't sound right," Hosea says. Dutch laughs. 

"You know what I mean. It would be easy for us. We go in, we scare them into giving up as much as they can before somebody catches on. Then we leave town, take the money elsewhere for _redistribution._ "

"No, no..." Hosea says, and Dutch's face twitches with light, because for Hosea to disagree means Hosea is considering it. "We'd stay in town a few days. If we can, that is. Deal with the money here, then be on our way before anyone realizes. If we disappeared right away they’d be onto us in a heartbeat. And if they arrested us somehow with all that money? It’s better to do it all here.” 

Dutch throws an arm around Hosea’s shoulders and presses a dry kiss to his cheek. 

“What would I do without you?” Dutch asks.

“Hang, I reckon,” Hosea says. Dutch laughs and leans into him.

“Tomorrow we’ll go see what this bank is all about.”

“Sure."

“Can I come?” John asks. Hosea looks up from where he’s securing his saddle. 

“No,” Hosea says.

"I heard you talking about robbing a bank last night! I wanna come."

"You ain't heard nothing, John," Dutch says, mounting his horse. 

“I can help!” 

“We ain’t even robbing a bank today,” Hosea says. 

“Then why can’t I come? Why are you all dressed up if you ain’t doing something interesting?"

“We’re making plans.”

“I won’t bother you none.”

“John, Arthur ain’t even coming with us today. Your day will come, son,” Dutch says. John looks to Hosea for confirmation and Hosea offers him a noncommittal shrug. 

“Put me in your plans,” John says. 

“There’s always something for you to do, John,” Hosea says. “We’ll be back later. Take care of Arthur.”

John mutters a string of curses as he retreats, and Hosea hears Dutch laughing behind him as they ride out. 

The ride into town is pleasant, the air just warm enough for comfort in the April sun. Dutch chatters along the way, about the great American scourge that is banking, and Hosea hums along in the right places. Dutch must know how he sounds, Hosea thinks. He must know that for all his disdain for _society_ and _civilization_ and the _United States,_ Dutch would not be Dutch without it. He would find something else to fight and resist, Hosea supposes. That’s what Dutch is best at. 

They come up on the bank and hitch their horses across from it outside of a gunsmith. 

“We’re just waiting for someone, here on business,” Dutch says softly, lighting a cigarette. Hosea nods, though he doubts anyone will be noticing them. The town is small but busy enough, and judging by the clothes of the people on the street, few of them are local enough to know an outsider - so outsiders are also commonplace enough that they’re nothing to fear.

“This may be perfect, after all,” Hosea says. Dutch nods, the brim of his hat brushing against Hosea’s.

“Indeed."

“Here’s the plan,” Dutch says, gesturing for John to come and sit down at the fire as well. John’s face lights up, though he tries to hide it, and he settles in between Hosea and Susan. “We need all of you for this. Any doubts, I wanna hear 'em so I can fix ‘em. Alright?”

“Sure,” Arthur says. Dutch nods.

“Alright. The Lee and Hoyt Banking House. They got a lot of money, not as much security. Foolish, if you ask me, seeing as the town’s full of drifters. A while after noon they got almost nobody going in or out, almost nobody on the street, neither. So me, Arthur, Hosea, we’ll all go in. Hosea will talk them up, make them feel at ease, then Arthur and me step in and demand whatever they got. John, Miss Grimshaw, you two will be outside on the street. Anybody tries to come into the bank before we’re out of there, you distract them as you see fit, but don’t draw attention.” 

“Do I get a gun?” John asks. Hosea bites his lip to hold back a laugh. 

“Not this time,” Dutch says. “Ain’t no need for it.”

“What if you need help?” John asks.

“We won’t. But Miss Grimshaw’s got her own gun,” Dutch says. Susan nods. 

“Then I should have one too,” John says. “We’re doing the same job, ain’t we?” Dutch looks at Hosea in question and Hosea sighs, shrugs, shakes his head. 

“You can carry a gun, then,” Dutch says. Arthur scoffs and turns up his palms in surprise.

“I certainly feel better knowing John is armed,” Susan says, entirely serious. Arthur looks at her with his eyebrows raised. John gives her a cautiously grateful nod. 

“The goal is to not need to use it,” Hosea adds. John nods, a somber excitement in his face. “Nobody should even see it, John. Understand?”

“Okay,” John says.

“Anyway. When the three of us leave the bank, you two stick around for a little bit after. We can’t all be leaving together. The three of us will split up and meet you back at camp later, depending on how all this goes. But I believe,” Dutch says, sitting back and resting a hand on Hosea’s shoulder as he surveys the group with satisfaction in his eyes, “that this’ll go just fine.”

Hosea gets off his horse and waits for Dutch and Arthur to follow suit. The day is cool and clear and Hosea feels his optimism in his shoulders. He looks down the street to where Susan and John are making their way slowly toward the bank. The most imposing mother and son on the continent with their dark hair and surly faces, Hosea thinks, and breathes a laugh. 

“If it ain’t good in there, we just leave,” Hosea says. 

“Of course,” Dutch says. He taps Hosea’s lower back. “Go and put that famous old Hosea charm to work.”

They make their way up the street to the bank, and Hosea pushes the door open smoothly. The inside is warm, and empty save for the teller at the counter. 

“Afternoon!” Hosea greets the cashier, a proud and thoroughly middle-aged man with good-natured eyes under dark brows. 

“Good afternoon, sir,” the man says. His voice is cheerful as he straightens up from the newspaper laid on the desk before him.

“I’m so sorry that you have got to be stuck indoors on a day as fine as this, particularly after such a hard spring. I reckon we haven’t seen the sun in five days until today,” Hosea says. 

“Indeed. Gloomy springs yield pleasant summers around here, however. Where are you from, sir? I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before,” the man says. Not nervous, just curious - what that means for the rest of the day, Hosea isn’t sure. 

“A colleague of mine suggested I come here to open a local account. He suggested I speak to someone in particular. Excuse me, I can’t remember the name for the life of me,” Hosea leans against the counter. He hears the door open behind him with a light swish, glancing over his shoulder to see the familiar peripheral silhouettes of Arthur and Dutch.

“Hello, gentlemen! I can help you in just a moment,” the cashier says over Hosea’s shoulder. 

“I really cannot recall. He described the fellow, though, could you be him? What’s your name, friend?”

“Me? My name is Belford.”

“Ah! That’s it! You’re the very man my colleague recommended. It’s such a pleasure, truly - “ Hosea is cut off by Arthur coming up alongside him.

“Throw up your hands,” Arthur says to the teller, holding his revolver in his face. Hosea has his own pistol in his hand before he can pull his bandana over his face. The man looks between them all and puts up his hands. A couple of men come out from the back of the bank, their eyes quickly going from curious to fearful.

“No need for alarms,” Dutch says coolly. “We won’t be any _real_ trouble unless you make trouble. Do you plan on making trouble, Mister Belford?”

“N-n-no,” the man stammers. 

“What about you two back there?” Dutch asks. The men shake their heads. “Good. Us neither, fellas. Where do you keep the money around here?” 

The man stammers, gestures to a room behind the counter.

“Some is back here, just for the daytime. The rest is in the s-s-safes.”

“Well, we’ll just take whatever’s back there. You mind if we come back there? Can you unlock this gate for me, Mister Belford? The quicker we make this happen, the less trouble there’ll be.” 

Belford goes to unlock the gate, his hands shaking slightly. Hosea is silently impressed by his bravery. Dutch steps behind the counter and Arthur follows, Hosea staying to watch the door. He counts the seconds to himself, listening to Dutch’s voice, uncharacteristically steady in the back of the bank. 

“Okay, let’s go, gentlemen,” Hosea calls. 

“Coming,” Arthur calls back. He emerges from the back room with a stuffed saddlebag slung over his shoulder. 

“Where’s - “ Hosea starts. 

“There’s silver. It’s too heavy,” Arthur says. Hosea gestures for Arthur to take his place in the lobby and steps through the gate and walks to the back room. He finds Dutch trying to maneuver several heavy bags. Belford looks at Hosea, confused.

“Hey. Only what you can carry. We gotta go,” Hosea says, pulling Dutch up by his arm, silently cursing Dutch’s foolish ambition. Dutch hands him a heavy saddlebag and hoists one up over his own shoulder. He looks at Hosea over the top of his bandana, his dark eyes glittering with satisfaction. “Let’s get a move on.” 

“Thank you, Mister Belford. Your country thanks you, too,” Dutch calls over his shoulder as he makes for the door, Hosea at his heels. 

Arthur pulls down his bandana and holsters his gun, opening the door. Dutch and Hosea do the same and step out behind him. Dutch gives Susan a nod as they pass her, walking calmly to their horses. 

“Looks like we did it, boys,” Dutch says.

“Don’t speak so soon. Let’s split up, meet back at camp tonight. Good luck, fellas,” Hosea says. Dutch swats his arm as he gets on his horse and Arthur gives him an understanding nod. Hosea waits for them to go their separate ways before he rides out himself. 

Down the hill outside of town, Hosea hears hoofbeats behind him. He slows his horse, not looking over his shoulder. 

“Hey there, partner. Those saddlebags are looking awful heavy."

Hosea turns to find Dutch falling into step next to him. 

“This ain’t splitting up,” Hosea says. Dutch shrugs. 

“We split up long enough,” Dutch says. “And we got a whole day to kill. What better way to spend it than with you, old friend?”

“Your flattery only gets you so far, Dutch,” Hosea says. 

“It gets me exactly as far as I need,” Dutch says. Hosea shakes his head. 

“Let’s at least get off the road, then,” Hosea says. “There’s a stream back here, if I remember.” 

They ride through the sparse forest, the trees just beginning to green at their tips but the ground still muddy. Hosea leads Dutch through the forest, across a narrow stream frothing with pollen, and they come up on the foundation of some long-abandoned homestead. 

“We oughta be camping here,” Dutch muses. 

“Found it while I was fishing with John,” Hosea says.

“He’s a good kid.”

“He is,” Hosea says, and steps down from his horse. Dutch does the same and nonchalantly checks the saddlebags on Beatrice and Hardtack. Hosea thinks of an Ohioan spring day years ago, Dutch checking his haul in the flickering sunlight, giddy beyond belief. They’ve gotten older, slowed down, Dutch has learned a modicum of restraint, Hosea has learned more than enough bravery. 

“Fella said this is something like five-thousand in gold,” Dutch says, then laughs, his face alight. He turns and pulls Hosea into an embrace. “We did it. Fine work today, Mister Matthews.”

“And you as well, Mister van der Linde,” Hosea pats Dutch’s side and Dutch releases him. “But your ambitions are gonna get us in trouble one of these days, Dutch.”

“How do you mean?” Dutch asks, his voice lowering.

“I mean the silver. You gotta stick to your plans, stick to what’s easy.”

“Hosea - “

“Dutch, I don’t wanna hear it. I just don’t want it getting us into trouble we can’t get out of.”

Dutch sighs and bites his lips. Hosea pulls two apples from his satchel and hands one to Dutch - a reminder of peace - and goes to sit on the foundation of the house. The stone is cool and damp, but it’s a place to sit, and Dutch sits down next to him, knocking their knees together. He bites into the apple and finds it just a bit too soft, made to last through too many seasons. Out-of-season fruit is a part of the ever-changing world he cannot bring himself to resent.

Hosea looks around the homestead, the foundation of a small barn a ways off, the remains of a road through the trees. He wonders if it was finished and crumbled or if it had been abandoned unfinished. He thinks briefly of the illustrations of Roman ruins he had once seen in a book. 

“You’re quiet,” Hosea says, looking over at Dutch. Dutch tosses the core of his apple aside and leans back on his hands. Hosea finds himself watching Dutch’s eyelashes in the sunlight, not for the first time. 

“I’m thinking,” Dutch says. 

“You know how I feel about that,” Hosea says. Dutch elbows him, leans into him, and Hosea leans back. 

“We are doing well, Hosea,” Dutch says. Hosea nods. Dutch shifts next to him kisses his jaw. “Remember when it was just us?”

“Are you having regrets?”

“No,” Dutch says. “Quite the opposite. I just miss…"

Hosea turns to kiss him, saving them both from a sentimental speech, and Dutch laughs. He moves off the wall to kneel on the ground, pulling Hosea with him. Hosea makes a bothered sound and Dutch stops. 

“I’m too old to be doing this in the mud,” Hosea says. 

“It ain’t even muddy,” Dutch says, pushing his thumb into the soil and wiping it on the leg of his pants. “Don’t imagine anyone would try and build this house here upon the mud.” 

Hosea sighs and Dutch laughs, leaning up to kiss him again. Dutch untucks Hosea’s shirt, pressing his hands against Hosea’s skin. 

“We got all afternoon,” Hosea says, stilling Dutch’s hands with his own. “Take it easy.” 

Dutch grumbles something and finally pulls Hosea down onto the ground with him. It’s not muddy, Hosea finds, so he lets himself settle against the wall. Dutch lightly bites his neck and Hosea pushes him away, reminding him that they were supposed to be split up for the day, so Dutch sets to undoing Hosea’s buttons. 

Dutch may have begrudgingly accepted the slowing down that comes with time, but he has stayed just as desperate as ever. Hosea stifles a laugh, thinks of men speaking about their wives, about how having a family started some marital drought, with no privacy and too much to do. It’s not the way it was, and Hosea knows Dutch longs for the way it was when they had just started, but Dutch is not Dutch if he’s not longing for something out of reach. Hosea doesn’t mind. 

Hosea gently tugs at Dutch’s belt buckle. Dutch feels good against him, familiar and fateful, and Hosea imagines he always will - simply because he always has. Dutch straightens up and kisses him on the mouth with a soft desperation that Hosea knows well, from years ago. Some things don’t change quite as much, Hosea thinks, and pulls Dutch closer. 

They return to camp just as the sun sinks below the trees. Arthur meets them by the horses, half-scowling with restrained amusement. 

“You all said to split up,” Arthur drawls. 

“And we did. We ran into each other on the road,” Dutch says. Arthur shakes his head, knowing better, petting Hosea’s horse as Hosea dismounts. 

Dutch hops down from his horse and shakes Hosea by the shoulder, grinning, and turns to the others. 

“Miss Grimshaw!” Dutch calls. “Do we have the proper accoutrements for a party tonight?”

“We do indeed,” Susan calls back. “Mister Marston and I collected some at the store before we left.” 

“We would be lost without you,” Dutch says. Susan waves him off and Dutch goes off to talk to her. 

Hosea finds John dutifully cleaning his small pistol outside the tent he shares with Arthur. Hosea crouches down next to him. 

“How’d it go?” Hosea asks. 

“Fine,” John says simply, but Hosea can hear the restraint in his voice, a boy trying to seem seasoned among men. “I think I scare people off more than anything. Couple of fellas looked at me and thought I was gonna beg and walked right past.”

“Well, it got the job done,” Hosea squeezes John’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” John says. “Can I keep the gun?”

Hosea holds his hand out for it and John places it gingerly in Hosea’s hand. Hosea looks at it, turns it in his hand. It’s one of Hosea’s guns, one he never uses.

“You like it?” Hosea asks. 

“Yeah. It’s nice. Feels good in my hand.”

“You can keep it, then, if you promise not to use it unless you absolutely must,” Hosea hands it back to John, who nods solemnly and looks at it as if he’s holding a brand new gun for the first time. 

“John! Hosea!” Dutch calls from the fire. “Get over here and join us!”

Hosea straightens up, feeling the day and all his years in his knees. He waits for John to neatly stow his new gun away, and they walk to the fire together. 

“Say, Hosea,” Arthur asks, frowning at a newspaper. “What’s ‘sullen’ mean?” Hosea hums.

“Sort of sad and distempered. Why?”

“Found this piece about the bank. Talks about us and calls me ‘a big, sullen young man.’”

“Well,” Hosea laughs, “I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s incorrect. But I’d say you’re rather serious above all else.” 

Arthur rolls his eyes. He looks at the paper a little longer, brows furrowed thoughtfully, and then hands it to Hosea. 

“Calls you a 'fine talker,' Hosea” Arthur says. 

“Does it now?” Hosea takes the paper and reads the article, chuckles at the dramatics of the bankers.

“Anything about me in there?” John asks. John had been enlisted by Dutch to distribute the gold they had stolen in the few days before they had left camp, saying John would be less conspicuous 

“Read for yourself,” Hosea hands him the paper. John grumbles, but he reads it, mouthing the words along to himself. Hosea is sure he’s missing words he doesn’t know, but John doesn’t ask, so Hosea doesn’t say anything. John finally hands the paper back to Hosea. 

“Says you all were the ones giving back the money,” John says bitterly. 

“Doesn’t matter what the paper say,” Hosea says. John shrugs. “Trust me, son, it’s better to stay out of the papers for as long as you can.” 

“I guess,” John gets up. 

Hosea skims the article again and huffs a laugh, hands the paper back to Arthur, who looks at it in amusement and sets to gently tearing the article out of the paper. 

+++

Arthur leaves to see Eliza, eager to share his take from the bank job and unsure of his return. Instead of becoming difficult as Hosea had expected, John becomes a ready listener and a nearly competent rule follower, though he complains relentlessly about being stuck with Miss Grimshaw while Dutch and Hosea go out for work. 

Hosea pretends not to notice that Dutch’s plans become too ambitious when Dutch is nervous, or that Dutch becomes nervous whenever Arthur leaves for Eliza and Isaac. It’s easier to rein him in and talk him down when Hosea simply plays along. To notice Dutch’s nervousness is to think him incapable, and as far as Dutch is concerned there is no greater sin. 

Dutch tries to convince Hosea to go out for another bank job. Hosea manages to negotiate it down to a stagecoach robbery on a hint he got from the post office. It’s too soon for another bank job, and they need Arthur to do it with confidence.

“Maybe we oughta take him with us,” Dutch says, watching John clean his pistol again. He does it often, out of boredom or pride or both.

“Sure,” Hosea agrees. John’s presence will make Dutch take it a little easier. Hosea doesn’t want John involved yet, not in anything big, but if it’s a matter of keeping Dutch calm and John from fussing like a cat in a sack, he’ll take it. “We should start small, though."

“Of course. I’m sure he’s a good enough thief, if he made it this far without us.”

“Dutch, he was nearly hanged.”

“And he made it that far,” Dutch says. Hosea shrugs. Susan sits down with them, her hands folded neatly around a cup of coffee. 

“As much as I love having him here, I think it would do him good to go with you two,” Susan says. Dutch looks from her to Hosea expectantly. “Do you remember when you sent me and John into town once and we got confronted by some fool who was mad he couldn’t have me? That boy held his own just fine. Hell, he held _me_ back as much as he scared that feller off.”

“I believe it,” Hosea says, and he does. John and Susan, by some miracle, form a formidable duo even in camp. 

“Let’s take him out. While Arthur ain’t here to make a fuss about it and get him all riled,” Dutch says. “He’s quick with his gun, I’m sure he’d be a decent guard. You’ve seen him shoot those birds.”

“Sure. Let’s keep him from needing to shoot anybody.” 

John proves to be competent on jobs, more than Hosea had expected, though set back by his need to prove himself. Hosea quietly gives him errands to run and things to do, often the same things that Miss Grimshaw would have asked of him. John seems to settle down, to stop itching quite so much to get out and get to work. Arthur seems mildly annoyed by it upon his return, but he accepts it and takes to inviting John on his own outings, however begrudgingly, and Dutch proudly watches them go each time. 

+++

After some three days - or something equally biblical, Hosea fears he lost count - of rain, Hosea is tired of being wet. The rain had soaked through their tents thoroughly after the first day and they had taken a long, wet ride into town and secured themselves rooms in an inn, all of them tired and frustrated save for Susan, who was glad to have something of a break in her own room.

Dutch warns the boys to behave as they head down the hall to their own room. Dutch and Hosea's room is small and warm, with a window that faces a brick wall. Hosea welcomes the privacy as much as the warmth and dry blankets, not realizing how much it was needed until the door is locked behind them.

They strip out of their wet clothes and argue lazily until Dutch agrees to go for a bath first. Hosea is dozing on the bed, sprawled on his stomach, when Dutch comes back, the door creaking open. Hosea cracks open his eyes.

"The bathmaids here are wonderful," Dutch says. Hosea grunts. 

"Oh? Did they do my job for me?" 

"If only you could be so lucky," Dutch says, sitting down on the bed and rapping his knuckles on Hosea's arm. "Go take a bath, old man." 

Hosea stiffly gets up, hiding his wheezing by breathing shallowly through his nose. The cold wet air has sent his lungs into a fit again, but Dutch doesn’t need to know yet.

Hosea collects his things and goes for a bath. The water is pleasantly hot but the steam sends him coughing, enough that the bathmaid he had declined comes knocking at the door again asking if he's alright. He finishes and returns to the room and finds Dutch fast asleep under the covers, a book abandoned on the pillow next to him. Hosea strips down and, pulling back the blankets, collapses next to Dutch on the narrow bed. Dutch stirs awake as Hosea puts out the lamp.

"Feel better?" Dutch asks sleepily. So he noticed the wheezing anyway, Hosea thinks, of course he did. 

"Yes," Hosea says, his eyes suddenly heavy as he settles into the mattress.

Dutch reaches up and runs a hand through Hosea's still-damp hair. Hosea lazily throws a leg over Dutch's, locking together at the knees, and Dutch spreads his palm over Hosea's hipbone, squeezing lazily. 

Hosea hums tiredly, eyes closed, his own voice sounding far away.

"Hm?" Dutch inquires sleepily. 

"In the morning," Hosea says quietly. "If you can behave." 

"I always _behave_ ," Dutch says. 

"If you can be _quiet_ ," Hosea murmurs.

Dutch rumbles a laugh, finds Hosea's hand with his own free hand and lays the back of his hand in Hosea's palm. Hosea squeezes it lightly.

Dutch's breathing returns to sleep just as Hosea closes his eyes. 

Hosea wakes up with the daylight, the rain still pounding outside. No rush in getting up, he decides, but nudges Dutch anyway until he grumbles. 

"Hey," Hosea pushes Dutch's hair from his face, "it's morning." 

"Okay," Dutch croaks.

"You wanna wake up?" 

"No," Dutch tightens his arm around Hosea's waist. “This is better.”

“Don’t go getting old on me, Dutch,” Hosea says. Dutch mumbles something and knees him gently under the blankets

Hosea settles into the bed's softness and Dutch's warmth. He drifts in and out of sleep, waking up to see the day remaining grey out the window. Dutch wakes each time Hosea stirs or coughs, and Hosea wakes each time Dutch moves, which is terribly often. They mumble to each other half awake each time, uncaring questions about getting up or giving each other half-coherent jabs before falling back asleep. 

A knock comes at the door, rousing Hosea from his half-sleep. He untangles himself from Dutch and climbs over him, Dutch protesting sleepily. 

“Dutch? Hosea?” Arthur’s voice comes from outside.

“Hold on, Arthur,” Hosea says, tugging on his pants where he had hung them to dry overnight. Dutch is blinking himself awake as Hosea opens the door to find Arthur standing with John, glassy-eyed and disoriented, in front of him. 

"He's been shaking and coughing all damn night. Kept me awake most of the night with it all, fidgety bastard," Arthur says, concern shining through his tone.

John doesn't put up a fight or snap at Arthur to shut up, and Hosea wonders if maybe he's sicker than he looks. Hosea gently puts his knuckles to John's cheek and his forehead, finding him painfully warm.

“Alright, come on in. Dutch, get up,” Hosea calls over his shoulder as he opens the door the rest of the way.

John is sleeping - fitfully, but finally sleeping. He has a barking cough with the regularity of churchbells that has mostly subsided, breaking through his sleep less frequently now.

“He’ll be fine, he just has to see it through,” Hosea says softly, knowing Arthur is watching him.

“Tell that to Dutch,” Arthur drawls, perched on the chest at the foot of the bed. Dutch has been fretting so much that he can't sit still - Hosea sent him out for food to get him out of the way. Hosea looks back at him. 

“Dutch was just as concerned when you caught that bad fever a few years ago. It’s how he is, you know that.”

“Oh, I know.” 

“There’s a book in my bag over there with a green cover. I just finished it and you’re welcome to borrow it. You don’t have to hang around in here.” 

“I don’t mind staying, unless you want me gone.” Arthur gets up and retrieves the book, returning to his seat on the chest.

“You’re welcome to stay,” Hosea says.

He sits back in his chair and watches Arthur read and John sleep. Arthur’s brow is furrowed as he reads, an expression that Hosea at one time mistook for Arthur having difficulty reading until Arthur bashfully told him it was quite the opposite. He feels a warm swell in his chest, some gentle pride and gratefulness at his luck. Of all the belligerent children that Dutch could have roped into their life, Arthur and John can only be as good as it could possibly be. 

The door unlocks and opens and Dutch steps in, dripping with rain, his hair curling up. The room suddenly feels louder even before Dutch speaks. He shrugs off his coat.

“Hey, Arthur,” Dutch greets him, holds out a cup of coffee to him. 

“Hey,” Arthur says.

“Might as well have Susan join us at this rate. Make it a party.”

“No thanks,” Arthur murmurs, returning to his book. Though Arthur’s caution around Susan had long ago waned he still seems to hold some things sacred, where John is welcome but Susan is not.

“Here you go, Mother Matthews,” Dutch hands him a tin mug of coffee, sounding pleased with himself. 

“Haven’t heard that name in a while,” Hosea says, taking the coffee with both hands. Dutch leans on the back of Hosea’s chair. 

“No need to rub it in, Hosea,” Dutch says.

“Are you jealous, Dutch?” Arthur pipes up. Hosea holds back a laugh.

“Only that I didn’t get to meet her,” Dutch says, and Arthur shakes his head, looks back down at his book. Dutch leans forward on his knees to look at John. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s sleeping it off,” Hosea says. Dutch watches John in silence for a moment over Hosea’s shoulder, then quickly and softly kisses the top of Hosea’s head. “When he wakes up he can go on back to his room, I think.”

Arthur grumbles from his seat.

“How are _you_ feeling, Arthur?” Dutch asks.

“I’m fine. Just didn’t get much sleep.” 

“The rain seems to be letting up a bit. Sky’s looking brighter,” Dutch says. He leans over to rifle through his discarded coat and recovers his satchel, producing a wrapped packet of candy. “Here’s this, for when he wakes up, like you asked.” 

John coughs and stirs but doesn’t wake up. Hosea smooths John's hair back - his skin is cooler now - and he can feel Dutch’s eyes on him. He looks from John to Arthur, whose face is relaxed enough that Hosea knows he’s only pretending to read now. Arthur likes to listen to them, Hosea realized it long ago but never mentioned it to Dutch, and he suspects Dutch still hasn’t noticed it.

“You said it’s clearing up?” Hosea asks, looking up at Dutch.

“Yeah. Rain’s a little lighter.”

“Hopefully it stays that way.”

“How are you feeling, my friend?” Dutch plays lightly with the hair at the nape of Hosea’s neck. 

“I’m doing okay.” 

“Don’t need you getting sick, too.”

“I know. Because none of you fools would do any of this for me,” Hosea nods to John, tucked safely into bed. A gentle taunt. 

“You know that ain’t true.”

“You’re right. Susan would,” Hosea says. Dutch lightly bats at the back of Hosea’s head and leans down, kisses him hard on the cheek. Hosea lazily swats him away and pretends not to see Arthur biting back a smile. 

Dutch rolls over in the low orange darkness to face Hosea. Hosea opens his eyes, only sees the tired glimmer of his eyes and some faint planes of his expression in the faint light coming from under the door. Dutch takes Hosea’s hand and plays absently with his fingers. 

“Did you ever want to have children?” Dutch asks quietly, his voice loose with approaching sleep.

“I suppose I would have in a different life. I don't think I'd be a good father in this one,” Hosea answers. “Did you? Want children, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Dutch says after a moment. He pauses again, breathing out a laugh that Hosea feels on his hands between them, “but we both got some anyway."

“I suppose we did,” Hosea says. 

“They’re good boys.”

“They are. For our standards," Hosea says. He lifts Dutch’s hand and kisses his knuckles. Dutch lowers their hands and presses the back of his hand into Hosea's chest. 

“You would be a fine father, Hosea,” Dutch says. Hosea’s cheeks itch with a blush that he tries to resist despite the dark. He huffs a laugh and Dutch shifts onto his back, taking Hosea’s hand with him to rest on his chest. “Or a mother.” 

“Enough, Dutch,” Hosea says. Dutch laughs, almost too loudly, and Hosea squeezes his hand and shushes him. 

1888

John and Arthur spend a day fighting, bored from work being slow and frustrated from gloomy weather. It puts Dutch on edge and Hosea is simply tired of hearing it, so he ropes Arthur into playing dominoes and Dutch, fraying at the edges, sits down with John to read. John manages to rile Dutch into a frustrated frenzy, arguing about something to do with John’s gratitude. Hosea watches Arthur stare at his dominoes, clearly listening more than thinking of a play. 

“You need to quit acting like you’d be better off as some orphan on the streets of Chicago,” Dutch says. Arthur bristles and finally looks up to where Dutch is standing over John, who angrily cleans his mess kit. Hosea thinks to interfere, to call Dutch off, but expects John to shut up and stalk off to sulk.

“I’m an orphan either way, Dutch!” John shouts, his voice cracking, dropping his dishes with a clatter. Hosea looks up, sees a small measure of confused hurt in Dutch’s face.

“Maybe you are, seeing as you don’t know love or family when you’ve got it,” Dutch says, but by his tone he’s abandoning the argument. Arthur is on his feet before Hosea can say anything. Hosea rises to follow him.

“Dutch!” Arthur calls as he storms over, coming to stand between Dutch and John. “You can’t go talking to him like that.” 

“What do you know about it, Arthur?” Dutch is surprised, his brow furrowed with what Hosea knows too well to be more pain than anger. 

“A hell of a lot, seeing as you said the same to me enough times,” Arthur says. Dutch stares at Arthur hard, and Arthur stares back, and John sees his chance and dashes off to see his horse. 

“Dutch,” Hosea calls. If he doesn’t, Dutch and Arthur will stand there staring each other down until they’ve lost the light entirely. Dutch holds Arthur’s eyes as he turns to go, casts them down as he makes his way to Hosea. “You okay?”

“I’m _fine_ ,“ Dutch says quietly. “I’m going to bed.” 

Hosea opens his mouth to speak, but the sound of Arthur and John talking draws his eyes to where the horses are hitched. Their words are too low to hear, but Hosea can see the concern in Arthur’s posture. 

“I can take care of myself, Morgan. Why don’t you go be a father to your own boy 'stead of trying to be mine?” John spits. Arthur freezes, stares at John with no expression.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arthur says. Dutch tenses at Hosea’s side and Hosea presses his hand against Dutch’s back, loops a finger around the waistband of his pants to keep him from storming over to break them up.

“And you do?” John calls back, already walking away. 

“Yeah, Marston, I do,” Arthur says. He stalks off to the tent he shares with John, brings out his bedroll and throws it down near the fire. Dutch turns away from it all and goes to their tent, sighing.

Hosea hears Dutch roll over, feels him tuck an arm around Hosea’s waist and press his nose against the back of Hosea’s neck. Hosea thinks to push him away, to stay faithful to his frustration, but he sighs and turns his head as far as he can toward Dutch. 

“You okay?” Hosea asks. 

“Thinking about the boys,” Dutch says. 

“They’re fine,” Hosea says, and shifts closer, lets Dutch pull him against his chest. Hosea covers Dutch's hands with his own in front of him. 

“I don’t want them to…” Dutch trails off, as if he hasn’t articulated his fears to himself. 

“They’re fine, Dutch. If they’re fighting us for each other then we done right by them, I reckon." 

Dutch huffs a laugh that tickles Hosea’s neck. 

“You’re right,” Dutch says. “Ain’t that the way of things.” 

“I’d be more worried if they didn’t go at each other like that,” Hosea says. 

+++

Arthur has been gone two weeks longer than is usual for him, and Dutch behaves like he’s living on hot coals. He makes plan after plan that Hosea shoots down or convinces him to put off, and Hosea reminds him not to worry, that Arthur can handle himself, to give it another week before he starts fretting in earnest. 

Hosea tries to keep Dutch busy with fishing and hunting and petty robbing, like they used to do. And it works, mostly, though Dutch still lies awake at night while Hosea listens to him think. John stays out of their way and Susan keeps her nitpicking to herself.

Arthur comes in late one morning, ragged and weary, looking years older than when he had left some weeks ago to see Eliza and the boy. Hosea gently pats John's arm to dismiss him, closing the book they had been reading. John gets up but doesn't go far, watching Arthur from under his mess of dark hair. Arthur dismounts and leaves his saddle on his horse. Not even Dutch speaks up from where he reclines by the fire, his dark eyes watching Arthur with concern. 

"Is there coffee?" Arthur asks, voice raw. Hosea quickly pours him a cup and holds it up to him. Arthur takes it, sits down in the dirt, digs a small bottle of whiskey from his satchel and empties it into his coffee. Hosea can feel Dutch vibrating to ask a question and he prays that Dutch will stay silent. Arthur looks at them both. "Don't just sit there watching me." 

Hosea gently pulls Dutch away. Dutch returns to his book. Hosea attempts to teach John dominoes, but neither of their hearts are in it and John excuses himself to whittle at some wood instead. Dutch joins Hosea for a mindless game of dominoes that is left unfinished, neither of them sure who was winning when they walk away.

The sun begins to set and Hosea and Dutch go about their evening, leaving Arthur alone at the fire, holding his coffee cup all the while. Hosea shoos John off to wash up in the river - _your hair, too, this time_ \- and sits with Dutch, who only smokes anxiously. 

"She's probably just had enough of it and doesn't want him coming around anymore," Hosea says. Dutch only hums.

Susan returns from a ride into town and Hosea nudges Dutch with his boot and nods toward her. Dutch gets up and goes to meet her at the hitching post, says something quietly to her that sends her eyes to Arthur. Dutch returns to Hosea and offers him his pipe. Hosea declines, leaning their shoulders together.

Susan scolds John for not washing his dishes properly as he returns to the camp. He huffs and lies down in his lean tent that he shares with Arthur. 

"What do you think happened?" Susan asks quietly. 

"Don't know. We'll find out when he's ready," Hosea says. 

"He can't just act like this forever," Dutch says.

"He won’t. Christ, Dutch, it’s only been a couple hours," Hosea says. 

Susan reminds them to bring her their washing in the morning and bids them goodnight, retiring to her own tent a short ways away. 

"Shall we?" Dutch asks. Hosea shrugs and stands up, walking to their tent. Arthur remains at the fire.

Dutch falls asleep quickly but not soundly - he doesn't snore and he rolls over often. Hosea stays awake. Dutch rolls over again, his back now against Hosea's. 

Hosea hears Arthur stand, hears his footsteps start toward his tent with John. Suddenly, Arthur casts a starlit shadow over Hosea. He looks up.

"Arthur?" 

"Hosea," Arthur begins, his voice barely squeaking out. Dutch stirs, now awake. They both sit up on their elbows. 

"What's wrong, son?" Dutch asks. Arthur hesitates for a long moment.

"They're dead." 

Hosea's stomach sinks, icy and heavy. Dutch's breathing hitches. Arthur's eyes glitter with tears in the low light, angry tears that refuse to fall. Hosea and Dutch simultaneously scoot over, making room between them. 

"Here, sit down," Hosea says. Arthur does, and Hosea puts an arm around him. Dutch does the same, gazing into the dark distance with a furrowed brow. 

Arthur lets out a shaky breath. He smells like pine and smoke and anxious sweat. Hosea’s heart sinks at the thought of him riding around for days, alone and full of bad feelings. Arthur takes off his hat, fiddles with the ties around it with numb and frustrated fingers. 

"They weren't even there. Just graves." 

"I'm sorry, Arthur," Hosea offers. There’s nothing he can say that Arthur doesn’t already know. So instead he tightens the arm around Arthur’s shoulders and plants a soft kiss on Arthur’s head. Arthur leans into him, shaking slightly. Dutch's brows are furrowed as he rubs circles on Arthur's back. 

"I shoulda been there," Arthur says softly. 

"Oh, Arthur," Dutch says. 

They sit watching the dying fire, sharing glances over Arthur's head, until Arthur falls asleep on Hosea's shoulder, Dutch holding one of his hands tightly. As Hosea gently lowers Arthur to the ground he stirs in panic. 

"It's okay, Arthur, you can stay here," Dutch says. He throws his blanket over Arthur and Arthur crosses his arms against his chest and falls into uneasy sleep, breathing the heavy sleeping breaths of a child cried out from a fit. Hosea gently lays his own blanket over Arthur as well, tucking it around his shoulders.

“Ain't done this in a while,” Hosea whispers, lying down and looking at Dutch over Arthur’s head. Dutch huffs a sad laugh through his nose in acknowledgement, eyes already closing again. Arthur had gone through a painful period of crying out in his sleep with nightmares when he was something like sixteen. Hosea never asked, he didn’t need to. He and Dutch both had their own shares of shouting themselves awake from dreams about hazy memories. One of them would simply get up and sit with him in silence at the fire until they fell asleep. 

Dutch is thinking, under the heavy sadness on his face. Hosea can see it, a thoughtfulness like when he’s contemplating a play in a game. Hosea watches him, the familiar movements of his eyes and brow, and realizes that it makes him uneasy, like that strange feeling in the darkness sometimes that sends him walking quickly back to camp before something can sink its teeth into his shoulders. 

He opens his mouth to ask Dutch what he’s thinking, but realizes he doesn’t want to know. He watches Dutch until Dutch notices him, then looks away.

Hosea brushes the hair from Arthur’s face and rolls over.

Hosea wakes up with the birds and finds Arthur still sleeping - barely, as far as Hosea can tell - between himself and Dutch. He sits up stiffly and finds John curled on the ground on his other side under a ragged blanket. Despite his difficulty, John hates sleeping alone. He still has his own share of nightmares that keep him - and often Arthur as well - awake through the night.

Hosea rises and places a hand on John's shoulder, softly, knowing John is liable to swing upon waking. He stirs and looks at Hosea with sleepy blindness and Hosea silently, gently gets him to move onto Hosea's bedroll instead of the ground. John shuffles over and pulls his knees to his chest and falls back asleep before Hosea finishes covering him with an extra blanket.

Hosea moves to the fire and stokes it, starts the coffee. Susan emerges from her tent, her hair loose around her face. She always looks kinder in the mornings, before the frustrations of the day set in.

“Miss Grimshaw."

"Good morning, Mister Matthews," she says. She ties her hair back with a ribbon. Hosea nods. Her eyes move to his and Dutch's tent, where Dutch is sound asleep with Arthur and John at his side. "Tough night?" 

"You could say that," Hosea says. 

"What happened to Arthur?" 

"Eliza and the boy are gone," Hosea says softly. He knows Susan can hear the restraint in his voice. 

"In what sense?" Susan asks.

"They're dead.” 

“Oh dear,” Susan says, a rare moment of softness flitting over her face. Hosea nods. She studies his face and gently pats his arm. “He’ll be alright.”

“Sure,” Hosea says. 

Arthur spends a few days on his bedroll, carefully watched by Dutch from across camp. Dutch asks Hosea with each sunrise and sunset how Arthur seems, as if Hosea sees something different from what Dutch sees in Arthur’s tired face. Beyond that, Dutch doesn’t seem to worry after him. In fact, Dutch is less worried about Arthur in his grief than he was any time that Arthur would leave to see Eliza. Hosea tries not to think about it. 

Arthur starts to move around again, avoiding eyes and conversation, spending as little time as he can manage in camp. When things are slow, he stays up late watching the fire and sleeps late into every day. Otherwise he takes on all the hunting, brings back more money and more bruises than the rest of them combined. He radiates an anger that scares even John and Miss Grimshaw into leaving him alone.

Arthur stops fighting with John, stops arguing with Dutch, stops poking fun at Hosea, becoming a sad grey presence that fades in and out of camp. They work jobs with him, and he works well only because he doesn’t seem to be thinking. Hosea wants to say something, though he doesn’t know what. 

John starts hanging around Hosea more, bored without Arthur to fight with. Hosea enjoys the company and the youthfulness John inspires. In Arthur’s frequent absences, John joins them more often on jobs, proving to be everything that Dutch and Hosea ever thought he could be. 

Hosea finds himself arguing with Dutch more and more about Arthur working, Hosea pleading with Dutch not to take Arthur on hard jobs, though Dutch insists that Arthur is more productive than ever. Hosea isn’t sure if Dutch finally comes around to understanding, but he stops pressuring Arthur to work, and that’s enough. 

1890

“Hosea,” Arthur greets him one morning, just as the sun is rising into the trees, glittering wildly on the dewdrops. 

“Arthur,” Hosea looks up from where he’s stoking the fire to start coffee. Arthur looks older, like more of a man than Hosea expected. “Haven’t seen you up and around so early in a while.” 

Arthur sits down on the ground next to Hosea, resting on his ankle to keep out of the dew on the grass. 

“It’s nice to be up,” Arthur says simply. Hosea remembers the bleak months after his mother died and he had run away, and that first morning after so long when he felt he could finally hear the birds and see the sun again. He sees the same tired, resigned relief in Arthur’s face now. 

“Hosea,” Arthur says. Hosea blinks and turns to him.

“Yes?”

“I missed you,” Arthur says. Hosea looks at him but Arthur doesn’t meet his eyes. 

“I missed you, too, Arthur,” Hosea gently claps Arthur on the knee and Arthur ducks under the brim of his hat. 

They sit in silence watching the fire pick up, crackling and hissing as it goes. Hosea has always appreciated Arthur’s silences, unassuming and shared to the point that Hosea could mistake them for prayer. The Divine speaks through others, through love for one another, his mother always told him. Maybe it just took him all those years to learn to listen. 

The coffee comes to its chattering boil in the pot and Hosea removes it, carefully pours cool water down the spout to settle the grounds, motions he could do in his sleep. He pours a cup for Arthur and holds it out to him. Arthur takes it, sits back on his ankle, and sips it gratefully. 

He sits with Arthur the way they always have, listening to the fire and the birds, but for the first time Hosea feels not as if he’s teaching Arthur through his example, but rather that they’re sharing something practiced and understood. Hosea sips his coffee, feeling mournfully grateful for Arthur’s company in that shared, wounded silence.

+++ 

Dutch lights a lantern, the summer night finally having grown too dark to see their dominoes clearly. 

“Brave of you. You got no excuse for losing now,” Hosea taunts. Dutch has never beaten Hosea at dominoes, but has a neverending supply of excuses for it, which is perhaps a victory in its own right. Still, Dutch offers to indulge Hosea in games, often without Hosea asking.

“Who said I was losing? Your hubris will get the better of you one day, Hosea.” 

“What can I say? You’re a bad influence.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You just wear your own hubris so well, Dutch.”

Dutch shoots him a look of mild annoyance from under his brow and returns to looking at the snake of dominoes between them.

Arthur and John are bickering lightly with each other over their dinner, half their words getting lost under the cacophony of evening insects and giggling frogs, but for the first time it sounds more like play than competition.

John’s voice cracks hard on some petty complaint and Arthur laughs, followed by the percussive pause of a shove.

“Careful, Marston. If you whine too much your voice’ll get stuck like that and you’ll sound like Dutch for the rest of your life.” 

The laugh rises up in Hosea's chest too quickly to stop it and he tucks his chin into his chest to hide his smile, feeling Dutch staring into the top of his head. 

“Something funny, Hosea?” Dutch asks dryly, clearly trying to restrain the crackling of his voice. Hosea looks up at him, biting back a smile. “I can’t believe you.”

“I didn’t even say it!” 

“Oh, you didn’t have to,” Dutch returns his eyes to the map of dominoes between them. Hosea keeps his head down, stifling a laugh, and plays a tile without thinking. “Don’t you try and let me win now.”

“Dutch, if I was gonna let you win it would be as a gift, not an apology.” 

“Oh, are you apologizing?”

“No,” Hosea says simply, not looking up from the dominoes. 

Three tiles later and he’s beaten Dutch yet again, and Dutch sighs and gets up without a word, shuffles around camp, and ducks into their tent. 

“What’d you do?” Arthur asks, standing over Hosea where he reclines at the fire. He lifts his hat from his eyes and looks up at Arthur.

“Huh?”

“Dutch kick you out?” 

“He’s upset.”

“Ain’t he always?”

Hosea starts laughing again, sitting up straight as laughing turns to coughing. Arthur looks at him, puzzled.

“When you told John his voice was gonna get stuck sounding like Dutch I…found a little too much humor in it, I think.”

“He heard that?”

“Oh yes. And I thought it was hilarious.” 

“John didn’t.” 

“Neither did Dutch. So I figure I best leave him alone.” 

“Hosea,” Dutch’s voice comes calling from their tent, “quit your moaning and just come to bed.” 

“Sounds like you’re off the hook,” Arthur says, and meanders off. 

Hosea gets up stiffly and makes for the tent. He pushes open the flap and finds Dutch lying with his arm over his eyes. 

“You done?” Dutch asks him.

“Are you?”

“Hosea."

"If I didn't like your voice I wouldn't have chosen to listen to it every waking moment of my life for so many years," Hosea says. Dutch huffs a laugh.

“I know,” Dutch says, moving his arm from his face. Hosea undoes his gun belt and stretches out on his bedroll, his joints crackling as he does. “It _was_ funny.” 

“I’m glad we agree,” Hosea says. Dutch chuckles and drops his hand onto Hosea’s chest.

+++

They start moving more often, a little further west each time. They stick to robbing coaches and scamming rich men in blooming towns, though Dutch convinces Hosea to rob a bank every now and then. Their act is perfect for how often they’ve done it - Susan playing a distraction, claiming to have been robbed by John, posing as a street boy who manages to outrun every policeman who goes after him. Hosea, Dutch, and Arthur make quick work of banks, and send John and Susan back into town to gift the money to the people. 

They encounter some of Colm O'Driscoll's outfit sometimes, leering at them and heckling them about how Dutch has interfered with their jobs. It's enough to send Dutch into a bout of frustration each time, though he holds onto it until they're back at camp, where he rants and stews in his anger for hours. Arthur often comes back into camp complaining that the O’Driscolls are getting in the way of work, and Dutch grumbles about how they shoulder Colm’s grudges while Colm himself likely doesn’t know their names.

Dutch and Hosea see their faces on less and less posters the further west they move. It’s a welcome relief, to be able to sleep more soundly again, though they do finally take to keeping watch at night just in case. John and Arthur become a duo of their own and earn their fair share of newspaper stories and posters, and Hosea would be proud of them for it the same way that Dutch is, if only he wasn’t so aware of the price. 

+++

“Folks in this town don’t know what they’ve got,” Dutch says, leaning against the hitching post by his horse. He strokes her nose and looks to Hosea for a response. 

“Reckon the bank would be easy?”

“Might be. They’re all too busy with their debauchery to invest in any real security, it seems.”

“Good place to - "

"Dutch van der Linde? Is that you?” 

Dutch and Hosea turn to find a jolly-looking character with greying hair approaching Dutch with open arms. Dutch stiffens, then laughs, clapping the man on the back. 

“I’d know that voice anywhere,” the man says. 

“You ain’t seen me in over a damn decade, you old man,” Dutch says, but there’s a fondness in his voice. Hosea recalls the stories Dutch has told so many times about people from the time before they’d met, tries to put the pieces together. “Believe it or not, it’s good to see you. Surprised you’re still alive, with all your proclivities.” 

“I could say the same about you and your ambitions, son,” the man says. His eyes fall to Hosea, and Dutch’s face lights up.

“This is my partner, Hosea Matthews,” Dutch says, resting his hand on Hosea’s back as if presenting him, but the hand stays there. “Hosea, this is Uncle. I may have mentioned him once or twice.” 

“I recall a few stories,” Hosea says, and extends his hand, “it’s a pleasure.” 

“Oh, he’s been telling stories about me?” Uncle elbows Dutch. Dutch has told stories - about a compulsively-lying brothel-frequenting supposed former gunslinger who Dutch had known briefly in Pittsburgh. Dutch’s memories of him seemed more entertained than fond, but warm enough regardless. 

“Only good things, of course,” Hosea says. Uncle laughs, as if amused by something Hosea doesn’t know. Hosea politely pretends not to see Uncle look him over curiously, as if trying to gauge his relation to Dutch.

“You got some kinda operation going here?” Uncle asks. Hosea watches Dutch study Uncle, feels Dutch's fingers twitch slightly on his back. 

“Something like that,” Dutch says. 

“You know, I ran into that feller you used to run with sometimes back then. Colm. He’s got quite an outfit now, makes a lot of money, he says. Well, I asked him about you, he said he ain’t seen you in years but that you was running some kinda orphanage. Now I don’t know what that means, but - “

“That sure sounds like Colm, alright,” Dutch says. Uncle shakes his head. 

“You boys still fighting?” 

“Ain’t never stopped,” Dutch says, bitterness lacing his voice. 

“I always did like you more,” Uncle says. “Say, mind if I join you fellas for a couple a days here? I could sure use the company.”

“An old friend is _always_ welcome,” Dutch says with genuine warmth, though he sounds less than enthusiastic.

“You always was the accommodating sort,” Uncle beams. Dutch sighs through a smile. 

Uncle does accompany them back to camp, and upon seeing John - in the midst of trying to wrestle Arthur, no less - he turns to Dutch in surprise.

“You didn’t tell me you got a boy now!” Uncle exclaims. Hosea watches the surprise and curious warmth play across Dutch’s face. 

“No, no,” Dutch says. “John ain’t…we picked him up out in Illinois. And that’s Arthur, we picked him up somewhere around Kentucky.”

Uncle tuts to himself, hands on his hips. “You always did seem the paternal sort.”

“So I’ve been told,” Dutch says. Susan marches up to the three of them, sizing Uncle up and visibly deciding she disapproves before even coming to a stop. “Uncle, this is Miss Susan Grimshaw. Miss Grimshaw, this is an old friend of mine, goes by Uncle.”

“Pleasure,” she says dryly. Hosea laughs, earning a halfhearted glare from Dutch.

Uncle immediately sets to flattering Susan, who only stares him down. He must be a fool to not be afraid of her, Hosea thinks. 

“I know he’s a clown,” Dutch says to Hosea quietly, “but he has his moments.”

“I believe you,” Hosea says.

+++

Uncle makes himself at home with them. He drinks too much, flirts with Susan, drives Arthur nearly to pulling out his hair. Dutch doesn’t mind him, reminding everyone that Uncle needs a place to stay as much as anyone else. He proves to be a fine cattle rustler - even while drunk - and a better storyteller, mostly because each of his stories is some elaborate lie he makes up as he goes. It’s an art, Hosea thinks, and he almost envies it. Hosea can lie, he can spin a yarn, play an act, but Uncle’s ability to convince himself of each outlandish tale is something Hosea finds incredible. 

Uncle lets the boys needle him with their annoyances, lets Susan call him every degradation she knows, lets Dutch and Hosea reprimand him for his laziness. As long as he has a place to lay his head, he doesn’t seem to mind. And no one else seems to mind the fun that he does bring, with his songs and stories and antics and dramatic complaints about his health. 

+++

Susan and Uncle go into town early in the morning, and Hosea and Dutch are left with John and Arthur arguing endlessly. Hosea tiredly sends them hunting, the morning already too hot to listen to their bickering. They complain, but they go, and Dutch suggests that they go hunting as well. 

Dutch wanders to a shady spot just outside of camp and calls Hosea to join him, sitting down against Hosea’s insistence. Hosea resigns and welcomes the relief of the shade, sitting down next to Dutch, who pulls him to the ground with him. 

They promptly fall into a half-comfortable half-sleep, shielded from the sun and the world by the trees and ferns. 

“Why’re you being so difficult?” Arthur’s voice comes from somewhere nearby, carrying through the trees. Dutch removes himself from where he’s pressed against Hosea’s side despite the heat, trying to listen.

“What do you mean?” John’s voice comes back. They’re in camp now, the sound of Arthur fiddling with the coffee pot carrying through the still air. They must think they’re alone.

“I mean you’re always being difficult. Ain’t wanna listen to nobody, always putting up a fight about everything even now that Dutch lets you do whatever you want.” 

“I work! I do what everybody asks! They didn’t have to pick me up,” John snaps. Hosea watches Dutch’s face puzzle over it.

“And you don’t gotta stay here, neither, but you do,” Arthur says.

“You want me to leave?” John snaps. Dutch chews his lip. Hosea lightly strokes his knuckles over Dutch's jaw. 

“That ain’t what I’m saying,” Arthur sighs.

“Then what’re you saying?”

“I’m saying that if you’re gonna stay you gotta act like it. Have some damn respect,” Arthur drops something and curses to himself. “Dutch and Hosea ain’t asking for nothing from nobody. Don’t mean you gotta be a little bitch about everything.”

“Shut up, Arthur,” John says. Dutch stifles a chuckle. They hear Arthur drop something else, and then John talking to his horse a ways away, 

“They don’t know we’re here,” Dutch whispers.

“No,” Hosea whispers back. “We should wait before we go back.”

“They’ll know we ain't hunting, we ain’t got our rifles.”

“Oh well,” Dutch says, and closes his eyes. 

"It ain't the first time," Hosea says. 

“Didn’t know Arthur felt so strongly,” Dutch lowers himself from his elbows to rest his head on his arms.

“He sounds like you,” Hosea says. Dutch breathes a laugh. “I mean it. He remembers everything you say to him. And about him.” 

“He’s a fine man.”

“He trusts you with his life,” Hosea says. Dutch opens his eyes, thinks for a moment.

“He trusts _us_ ,“ Dutch says.

_"_ Sure," Hosea says. _But that's not the same._

From camp, John's voice calls for Arthur. Hosea is surprised voices can carry so far in the heat.

“You seen Dutch and Hosea?” John calls. 

“No,” Arthur calls back.

“They left their rifles.”

"Course they did," Arthur says, exasperated. 

Dutch hides a laugh in Hosea’s shoulder. 

“Let’s give it a bit,” Dutch whispers.

“Sure," Hosea says. 

1891

“Hosea, for the last time, please just stay put today,” Dutch pleads. 

“I’m fine, Dutch,” Hosea says, but the rattly echo in his own chest is loud, and his body aches from coughing. The cool, wet air of the last few days has taken its toll. The winter has been long, and even the tail end of it is hardly over.

“Hosea, you ain’t gonna be able to huff and puff at me even if you come with me, let alone look out for me. Please.”

“Take Arthur, then,” Hosea says. Dutch looks at him with concern, his mouth pressed into a frown. 

“What are you worried about, old girl?” Dutch asks. Hosea squints at him. 

“I’m just worried, Dutch. Always am. You know me,” Hosea says. He doesn’t know how to explain to Dutch the shaky feeling in his spine, like something is about to lay its hands on his shoulders. 

“I do. I’ll be fine. I ain’t gonna get into any trouble.”

“Please take Arthur.” 

“I’ll see what he’s doing,” Dutch says. Hosea doesn’t fight it, just sits back on his bedroll and holds his jacket around him as Dutch turns to go. 

Dutch comes back into camp in a panic, pulling off his hat, his hair falling loose from where he had so carefully combed it that morning. Hosea looks up from his newspaper. 

“Hosea,” he calls, and his voice is shaking. “I need to talk to you. Arthur, you too. Now.” 

Arthur shoots Hosea a look as he gets up, waits for Hosea, and follows him to where Dutch is waiting at the edge of camp with his hands on his hips. 

“What’s the matter, Dutch?” Hosea asks, tapping him on the elbow. 

“Ain’t no easy way to say it. In town just now I…I shot Neal O'Driscoll - “ Hosea sighs and Arthur takes off his hat, runs a hand through his hair, “ - now I need you two to believe me when I say I didn’t have much choice.”

“Why’s that?” Hosea asks. Dutch scrubs a shaking hand over his face, dark spots of blood on his sleeve. 

“Because he was gonna shoot me first,” Dutch says. 

“And why’s _that_?” Hosea asks. 

“Lord, Hosea, do you doubt my judgment?” Dutch snaps. 

“No, Dutch, but these are things I need to know,” Hosea says, waiting for Dutch to meet his eyes. “I trust you did what you had to. You know that. But Dutch,” Hosea pauses, waits for Dutch to look at him instead of staring past him, “should we be expecting some kind of retaliation?”

Hosea holds Dutch’s eyes, waiting for him to understand. The price for Neal O’Driscoll would be one of Dutch’s own, should Colm decide on revenge, and Hosea doesn’t want to say it. But Dutch seems to understand, and his eyes steady a bit.

“I doubt it. Colm ain’t never liked his brother.”

“That don’t mean you ain’t done him wrong,” Arthur says, swatting a bug away from his face. “Or that he ain’t looking for some excuse to do you wrong."

Dutch sighs. Hosea squeezes his arm. It's far from the first time Dutch has killed someone, but Hosea has never seen Dutch look quite so afraid. 

“I got a plan. I thought about it on the ride back here, once I was sure they wasn’t following me,” Dutch says. 

“Let’s hear it,” Hosea says.

“We move west. Good and far this time. I reckon as long as we stay outta their way we won’t have any trouble.”

“Sure.”

“We ain’t going to war with no O’Driscolls.” 

“Course not. But Dutch…”

“What?” 

“We ain’t gonna be able to run from this forever.”

“No, we ain’t. Everything catches up to everyone eventually. But we can be ready, and we can do it on our terms,” Dutch says. 

“Sure,” Hosea says.

“We’ll be better off, anyway. Ain’t no more room for men like us here, anyway. If Colm O’Driscoll wants to lay claim to civilization a while longer, I say let him. We’re just trying to live free, same as ever. It’s about time we moved west. It’ll do you some good, too, Hosea, with that cough of yours."

“Sure. I’ll talk to Miss Grimshaw, get everyone ready,” Hosea says. Dutch nods and pats Hosea’s arm. 

“Arthur, can you keep watch tonight?” Dutch asks.

“Sure, Dutch,” Arthur says. 

“Wake me when you get tired, I’ll take over,” Hosea says.

“Hosea…” Dutch starts. Hosea shakes his head. 

“I rested all day. I’m fine.” 

Dutch looks between the two of them, his eyes moving quick and his face thinking hard. 

“Thank you for your confidence, fellas,” Dutch says. 

“Course, Dutch,” Arthur says. Hosea looks at him, sees the trust in his face, and thinks that maybe Arthur has never looked younger. 

“It’ll be good for us out there. Open country, plenty of room for folk like us to live as we please. And I promise you, gentlemen, I will not let any of you down. Ain’t no harm gonna come to any of you, and I mean that.”

Hosea nods, feeling an intangible itch at the top of his spine, pats Dutch and Arthur each on the shoulder, and turns to go speak to the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter or two might take a little bit longer for me to get polished and posted because i have to put my history degree to "real" use by editing some research for publishing instead of using it to talk about cowboys. so in advance: apologies for the tardiness and thanks for the patience, it will all be up soon enough. 
> 
> if you're still reading then maybe give me a shout in the comments. i love to hear anybody's thoughts - you guys always notice things that have slipped past even me. 
> 
> or if you wanna follow/talk to me i'm on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thehubbins) and sometimes [tumblr](http://hubbins.tumblr.com). i don't bite. i will talk to you about my research. i will give you my red dead playlist. i'll even show you my weird dog.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY!!! i'm sorry this took so long to get up but i've been wildly preoccupied with "Real Writing" (i am so tired of talking about trains) and a bunch of other Life Stuff. it took forever to polish and edit this chapter as it was because it is i believe 18.5k words, so have fun with that. thanks for the patience every which way.
> 
> sorry if ao3 ate my formatting or if there are any weird typos, my keyboard is broken and has invented the alter egos of Ddutch and Hosa. just let me know and i'll fix them. anyway, i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it, etc etc.

1891

Things feel right as they start moving west. Dutch is at ease now that he has a destination in mind, and that's enough to give everyone else peace of mind. They stop over in little frontier towns, rob hired stagecoaches on the road, make themselves at home wherever they see fit. They enjoy nearly a year of work and life without any real O’Driscoll interference. Hosea has, to his relief, very little to worry about.

They pick up other stragglers along the way, and people come and go according to their needs and ambitions. Hosea trusts most of them, watching them pass through - from a rigid young woman accompanied by an even younger young man who are both heading north, to a strange European fellow drifting along with his head in the clouds, to an ex Navy cook with a drinking problem but enough stories and skill to make up for it, to a hard, thieving woman with a fine singing voice, to many less remarkable characters looking for a few nights or weeks of safe sleeping. Few of them are troublemakers who wind up sent off on their own or worse. Most of them offer money or food in return, which Dutch humbly accepts and shares, and which Hosea quietly refuses when Dutch is absent.

Dutch makes a point of getting to know everyone who passes through. Hosea regards it as some ritual of self-assurance, wondering silently if anyone else notices the veiled desperation in Dutch's efforts. Hosea pretends not to notice it himself, and watches people come and go, saves most of his time for those who seem like they intend to stay a while.

Arthur strikes things up with some of the characters who pass through. Dutch teases him for it, jokes about it to Hosea whenever Arthur disappears to go hunting with some other young man who will surely be on his way within a fortnight. Hosea laughs, sometimes prods Arthur about it gently, but he finds himself saddened by it more often than not. 

Dutch seems to thrive on the strays they collect. He beams whenever he brings someone back to camp, rides the high of it for a few days, singing the endless praise of whoever he just scooped up off the road or caught trying to rob him. Hosea is glad to see it. He likes the company, after all, and likes the way Dutch relaxes when he feels he’s living as some proper example. 

“A city on a hill, Hosea,” Dutch always tells him, and Hosea shakes his head at Dutch’s idealism, as much as it may still charm him. 

If only the law or Colm O’Driscoll or anyone else knew the extent of Dutch's weakness for hospitality, Hosea thinks, they could likely get everything they want from him. 

+++

Arthur comes back one day with an offering of a newspaper about Colm O'Driscoll being arrested at last. Dutch is pleased about it and insists on a party.

“Not that I think men should be jailed, but it's the best we can get with dear old Colm," Dutch toasts at the fire, and everyone chuckles, and he throws an arm around Hosea's shoulders victoriously. They _have_ won, for a while. With Colm in jail - inevitably not forever, as tricky as he is - some sudden O'Driscoll revenge is one less thing to worry about, one less weight Hosea has to shoulder.

"You act like we arrested him ourselves," Hosea says. Dutch quickly kisses his cheek. 

"We can pretend," Dutch says, grinning as he watches the others singing around the fire a few feet away.

"Sure," Hosea leans his shoulder into him and Dutch leans back. 

+++

They’re all busy and tired but - as Dutch so loves to say - as long as they stay busy and tired together, the world is still theirs. Dutch still drags Hosea away with the old excuses of planning or hunting or fishing, though more and more often just for reading or sleeping than anything else.

Hosea can feel Dutch watching him over the top of his book, feels Dutch's fingers stop absently playing with his own. He looks up, meets Dutch's eyes where he lays sprawled on the ground with his book propped against Hosea's leg.

"Something wrong?" Hosea asks.

"Not at all," Dutch says. "Just watching."

"Sure." 

"Really, Hosea." 

"What are you thinking about?" Hosea asks. Dutch sighs.

"How long it's been," Dutch says. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, dear. We still have a ways to go," Hosea says. Dutch laughs. 

"That we do, dear Hosea," Dutch says. Hosea removes his hand from Dutch's gentle grasp and smooths Dutch's hair, and Dutch leans his head into the touch. Hosea runs his thumb over the faint lines of Dutch’s forehead, and Dutch turns his head away, as always. 

For as much as Dutch enjoys tracing the lines in Hosea’s face and stroking where his hair has gone grey - Hosea knows Dutch likes it, because Dutch tells him more than enough - Hosea still sees the panic in Dutch’s face when it seems to reminds him of all the years between them. They’ve both lived too long for the lives they’ve lived, and Hosea more than Dutch. Sometimes, when Dutch touches the lines around Hosea's mouth Hosea swears that he can see the glimmers in Dutch's eyes of the look he gets when he wants to start running again.

Hosea takes Dutch by the chin and turns his face back toward him. Dutch huffs indignantly but lets Hosea look at him.

“What are you so worried about?” Hosea asks. “As if I ain’t seen all the best and worst of you already." 

"I know, Hosea," Dutch grumbles, but he doesn't turn away, watching Hosea look over the small lines around his eyes and mouth. The one thing Dutch can’t run from, but it won’t stop him from trying.

"I swear I'm aging for us both. You look far better than I did at your age," Hosea says, and he lets go of Dutch's face. Dutch catches his hand and gently holds it to his mouth, kissing the scarred back of his hand. "You get to hold onto your looks a while yet." 

Dutch breathes a laugh, a puff of air against Hosea's fingers. 

“You look fine. You always have,” Dutch says. “Or haven’t I told you enough?”

“You tell me so often that I’m starting to get suspicious,” Hosea says. Dutch rolls onto his back and looks up at Hosea. 

“I would never lie to you,” Dutch says somberly. 

“I know."

+++

Annabelle is a smart conversationalist and a smarter thief. She sings, she dances, she flirts expertly - just enough with other men to keep herself liked by everyone else. Dutch takes to flirting with her, enthralled by her sleek red hair and her penchant for entertaining, and she makes a game of it.

Annabelle, in all her youth and beauty, is clouded in an aura of impermanence that keeps Hosea an arm's length away. He doesn’t mind her, but she avoids him, and he lets her keep her distance. 

Hosea sees Dutch's trajectory long before Dutch even realizes he's in the air. He teases him for it, and Dutch denies it earnestly until he finally falls. 

One night, with everyone sitting around the fire sharing jokes and stories, Dutch finally pulls Annabelle into his lap. She looks over his head to Hosea, holding his eyes in the firelight with some unreadable expression. Whatever they share - Hosea doesn’t know, except for the heavy pit of resignation in his gut - Annabelle throws an arm around Dutch’s neck and makes herself at home.

When Annabelle finally leads Dutch off, once most of the gang has retired to bed, Dutch looks at Hosea over his shoulder as he goes. Hosea meets his eyes and doesn’t protest - because he knows better, because he’s been through it before - and Dutch takes Annabelle’s hand and follows her.

Hosea doesn’t mind sleeping on the ground again. As cold as he may be, he finds it easier than trying to share a cot with Dutch’s restless sleeping. He likes to have the stars overhead, likes to be near to the rest of the gang and their conversations and comings and goings. 

In the quiet moments of the dark early mornings, staring up at the stars, he finds that he does mind his own foolishness, and his younger self who had ever thought that Dutch - however true he may be - could ever be satisfied by something so simple. 

But Dutch comes back, like he always does. Annabelle knows, because everyone knows, and Hosea reckons that she doesn’t like it - it’s clear in the way that she regards Hosea so politely, with cool distance. She he doesn’t stop Dutch - she’s smarter than that, Hosea thinks - but an embarrassment often paints her doll-like face too clearly. 

Hosea feels sorry for her more than anything else. Susan, at least, had never seemed ashamed - but Susan had been worn out by the world, forced into a wisdom and resignation that Annabelle has yet to earn. 

Dutch still sits with Hosea, touches him, offers up the same fondness as always, hauls him out on walks and fishing trips and overnight ventures into town. It isn’t the way it used to be, much of Dutch’s desperation having faded and become a tame desire for company and familiarity - only because they’re both so tired now. That’s the difference, Hosea thinks, between Hosea and everyone else. Dutch lets himself be slow and tired alongside Hosea, lets himself complain about his knees and how he keeps finding new aches in his back. And Hosea listens, gently jokes about how Dutch doesn’t know how bad it can be, but tries to massage the pain away anyway.

Dutch apologizes for the way things have changed, still trying to chase something far behind them both, and Hosea holds his face in his hands and tells him again and again that this is good, too. 

+++

“How are you keeping, Mister Matthews?” Susan asks, sitting down across from him at the table and arranging some dominoes. Hosea sets aside the newspaper and starts pulling a hand of dominoes toward himself.

“I’m just fine, Miss Grimshaw, thank you,” he says. “And you?”

“Oh, you know. Just trying to keep things ship shape."

"It's appreciated, as always," Hosea says. She doesn’t complain about anything, so Hosea readies himself for whatever it is she wants. Susan hums, lays down a domino. Hosea inspects his own tiles. 

"Do you mind talking about Dutch?" Susan asks. Hosea raises an eyebrow.

"What's he gotten into now?" 

"Nothing. Well, Annabelle, I suppose," Susan doesn't look up from her dominoes. Hosea laughs and Susan allows herself a chuckle. 

"He always did like the redheads," Hosea says. Susan plays a tile, then Hosea. 

"Of course," she winks, and plays a tile, waits for Hosea’s turn. “But he _loves_ you." 

Hosea feels his stomach twist. Susan puts down a domino, and Hosea blinks, trying to count the pips and failing. 

"Everything alright?" Susan asks. Hosea sighs and nods. 

"Just fine," he says, and plays a domino, realizing his play was unwise as he sets it down. Susan promptly plays on his tile and Hosea picks up a domino, and another, and another.

“It’s all over him. You know that,” Susan says. "He likes to have his fun, but…nobody else will ever be you." 

Hosea scoffs. Susan plays her second to last domino, trapping Hosea into drawing. 

“Miss Grimshaw, I appreciate your intentions, but I don't need the consolation," Hosea says as he picks up another domino. 

“It’s not" Susan chirps. "I may be a nag, Mister Matthews, but I know when someone knows something better than me. But sometimes it doesn’t hurt to hear things aloud.”

"Sure," Hosea says. His head is still spinning with truths he's known but not heard spoken. Susan plays her last domino and Hosea starts turning over his own to count them. 

1892

Arthur comes back into camp one night saying that Colm’s boys have been heading west too, have wound up around the very same town as them. 

“Should we leave?” Hosea asks Dutch, standing at the edge of camp in relative privacy. Hosea coughs on Dutch's cigarette smoke.

“Leave? Oh, no, Hosea, I ain’t afraid of Colm O’Driscoll. We were here first, and we’re staying here, until _we_ decide it’s time to leave,” Dutch says, pacing back and forth a few paces. Dutch throws his cigarette on the ground. Hosea steps on it. “He may be an unprincipled scoundrel but he ain’t got the brains to be a threat. Not to me, not to us.”

Dutch stops pacing. Hosea chews on his lip. 

“Maybe we should stop stealing their scores,” Hosea says. 

“Oh, Hosea. Where’s the fun in that?” 

“And there’s fun in being chased by the law _and_ some good-for-nothing with a small army behind him?” 

"Hosea...” Dutch scrubs a hand over his face. “That ain’t what I mean."

"If you wanted to keep having fun at their expense then you wouldn't have killed his brother," Hosea says. 

"I didn't have a choice," Dutch says dryly. " _You_ weren't there." 

Hosea pauses, unsure, trying to feel if Dutch is putting something on his shoulders. Dutch has still never told Hosea what happened that day in its entirety - if it could have been prevented, Hosea will never know.

"I don't care why you did it, Dutch. I trust you. You know that. But Colm will never come for _you_ ," Hosea says. He can't bring himself to say that Colm will come for Hosea, or Arthur, or even John before he would come for Dutch. Colm and Dutch would never kill each other, for all their talk, and they both know it - Hosea reckons it’s part of why they hate each other so much. 

"So we get moving again,” Dutch finally says.

"No," Hosea says, and Dutch sighs. "We stop stealing their scores. Or at least do it less. There's plenty of work out here for us without getting in his way. That's why we came out here, isn't it? To put some room between us and them?" 

Dutch stares ahead, thinking. Dutch knows Hosea is right. If he didn't, he would be spinning something aloud instead of chewing his lip.

“It ain’t like we can just avoid them, Hosea. They're running from the same things as us. Eventually we’ll end up - “

“We don’t have to go out of our way to cross their lines, either,” Hosea says. He squeezes Dutch’s elbow. Dutch nods. 

“You’re right,” Dutch sighs, his shoulders falling. Hosea puts an arm around him. Dutch leans into him, shaking his head. 

“I know,” Hosea says, and Dutch scoffs. 

+++

“You’re still sleeping on the ground?” Dutch asks as Hosea lays out his bedroll beside a wagon. Hosea looks up at him.

“Yeah. I don’t mind,” Hosea says, resting back on his heels to look up at Dutch.

“We can get you a cot, Hosea,” Dutch says. Hosea stops and watches his dark eyes scan Hosea’s face.

“I don’t need one. Everybody else is sleeping on the ground, anyway.”

“Arthur and John aren’t.”

“I’d just rather sleep on the ground, Dutch,” Hosea says, holding Dutch’s eyes. “Better for my back, anyway."

His eyebrows furrow and his mouth straightens.

“Is this some kind of stab at me? Because of Annabelle?” Dutch asks, his voice pitching with hardly-restrained frustration. 

“No, Dutch,” Hosea says sharply, and looking at the stubbornness in Dutch's face he wonders for a moment if it’s a lie after all. 

“Well, if it makes you happy," Dutch says, his voice still serrated. 

"It does. I do like it this way. You know me, Dutch, I don't need much. I like to be near the others." 

“Well, I would certainly hate to offend your sensibilities, _Friend_ ,” Dutch says. Hosea sighs heavily as he listens to Dutch stalk off to his tent. 

+++

Hosea is standing watch, listening to the birds flutter and fuss at each other in the trees, the squirrels rattling and shaking branches above his head. The trees are newly green, bright and young, and the animals are mad with the new warmth and abundance of the spring.

Under it all, Hosea hears the sound of hooves approaching, and he strains to listen, thinking of everyone in camp, everyone expected back, the unfamiliarity of the horses coming up the trace. He raises his rifle as the horses come through the trees. 

“Who’s there?” Hosea calls, and gets no answer. On a dark and weathered horse appears Colm O’Driscoll, flanked by four of his men, their guns drawn but lowered. 

“Hey there, old timer,” Colm says. Hosea keeps his rifle pointed at Colm’s chest. “Good to see you’re still around." 

“What are you doing here?” Hosea asks. 

“Oh, my boys have been seeing Dutch’s boys coming and going for a while now. They said you all were around here somewhere. Where’s Dutch?”

“What do you want?” 

“I just wanna talk to him. About all this mess we’ve gotten ourselves in. Nobody’s caused any trouble, far as I know. We could keep it that way,” Colm says. Hosea narrows his eyes, and Colm nods. "Lead the way, partner.”

Hosea watches him, thinks for a moment. One of Colm’s men flashes his pistol slightly in the sunlight. Hosea nods and turns, swallowing hard as he walks up the trail to camp.

“Surprised you’re still kicking,” Colm says. One of his men laughs. 

“Unfortunately, it seems I’m a hard one to kill,” Hosea says. Colm chuckles, a dry sound that turns Hosea’s stomach. 

“You go on ahead,” Colm says as he halts his horse. Hosea looks back at him cautiously and walks into camp, calling out for Dutch calmly. 

Dutch emerges and, sensing the abnormality, John and Arthur appear at his side, wary and suspicious, drawing their guns. The others in camp freeze. 

“Your friend Mister O’Driscoll is here to see you,” Hosea says, loudly and clearly so Colm can hear him.

“Colm O’Driscoll? In my camp?” Dutch scoffs, his face twitching with anger and a glimmer of fear.

"I'm afraid so," Hosea says.

“Why didn’t you _shoot_ him?” Dutch asks Hosea softly as he passes him, close enough that the brims of their hats bump together. 

“And get shot myself?” Hosea asks. Dutch sighs, nods, steps forward. Colm and his men have emerged from the trees, looking as ragtag as ever. 

“Ah, Dutch,” Colm says, still in his saddle. "It's good to see you. You've got a nice little outfit here now, don't you? Women and all. You boys are living it up." 

“How can I help you, Colm?” Dutch sneers. Colm chuckles and shakes his head. 

“Is that what you're doing by stealing my scores? Helping me?" Colm asks. Dutch stares up at him, his hands on his hips. 

“It ain’t stealing if it don’t belong to you in the first place,” Dutch says. “Why don’t you come down here and talk it out like a man?” 

Colm sits back in his saddle and looks around the camp, his small dark eyes resting in turn on everyone standing behind Dutch. He meets Hosea’s eyes and squints, something cunning flashing across his face. 

“Killing my brother, now that’s one thing. Interfering with my business, that’s war. Naturally. But bringing my manhood into this?” Colm clicks his tongue and huffs a laugh. “That’s a low one, Dutch, even for you.”

“Since when do you concern yourself with manhood, Colm?”

Colm laughs. Dutch shifts on his feet. Hosea focuses on the weight of his rifle in his hands.

“Listen, Dutch. You don’t run this country any more than I do. I strongly advise that you stop pushing folks around,” Colm says.

“Or what?” Dutch asks. Colm looks to Hosea and holds his eyes for a hard moment. Dutch doesn’t turn, but Hosea can see in the strain of his shoulders that Dutch knows where Colm is looking.

A shot breaks through the midday air with a glint of Colm’s revolver. Hosea falls to a crouch as Colm's shot is answered by dozens, and finds to his surprise that no bullet has struck him.

Under the noise of gunfire and startled horses, Hosea hears Annabelle gasp behind him. He turns to see her on the ground on crumpled legs, blood spreading over her fine pink dress. 

Hosea looks to Dutch, finds him determinedly emptying his revolver at Colm, who fires over his shoulder as he retreats with two of his men, two unmounted horses scattering on their own.

Hosea moves to Annabelle, keeping his head down, unable to move his eyes from where the blood seeps through her dress more with each of her gasping breaths. He presses his hands onto the wound, as if it might hold the life in her, though he can hear in her breathing that she’s too far gone as her blood covers his hands, sickeningly hot.

The gunfire slows behind him and Susan appears at Hosea’s side in a flurry of her skirt, nudges him away, replacing his hands with her own. Hosea brushes Annabelle’s hair from her face, hating to smear blood over her forehead, and rises from the ground as he turns back to Dutch. 

Dutch is still firing blindly into the trees Colm had disappeared into, though everyone else has stopped. Two of Colm’s men are on the ground, unmoving.

“Dutch,” Hosea shouts, wanting to reach out for him but not wanting to get Annabelle’s blood on his clothes. Dutch stops firing.

“Everyone okay?” Dutch calls out. A chorus of startled voices comes back, Arthur and John among them. 

“ _Dutch_ ,” Hosea repeats, finally reaching out as Dutch turns to him, seeing the blood on his hands and looking at him wildly. 

“Hosea," he says, with no breath in his lungs.

“Not me,” Hosea says, and his mouth is dry. Dutch furrows his brows and glances around camp, his eyes finally falling on Annabelle’s bloodied form on the ground. 

“Oh, no,” Dutch says softly. Hosea reaches for his arm, trotting after Dutch toward Annabelle, who lays against Susan’s chest, grimly pale with tiredly fluttering eyes. 

Hosea keeps his hand on Dutch’s arm as Dutch falls to Annabelle’s side and cries, talking to her with desperate anger in his quiet voice as her eyes still and her wet, ragged breathing halts. Hosea stays there, looking away, until he hears Annabelle’s breathing stop. 

Hosea turns away, removing his arm from Dutch’s sleeve, the drying blood on his hand sticking to the fabric. He herds Arthur and John away from the group, and Arthur is nodding knowingly before Hosea can open his mouth.

“I’ll go dig the damn hole,” Arthur says, lighting a cigarette. Hosea sighs and shakes his head.

“Thanks, Arthur. John, come with me,” Hosea says. John follows him as he starts toward the O’Driscolls on the ground. “Let’s get them moved. We can…we’ll bury them later.”

“Right,” John says.

Hosea approaches one of the men on the ground. They had all looked young on horseback, but he looks younger now. The blood is still spreading through his shirt, though his eyes are empty and his chest is still. Hosea kneels to shut his eyes, rises, nodding to John. 

Hosea finds the other boy still gasping, his eyes shut against the pain of the wounds to his stomach. He looks up at Hosea with brown eyes, the whites gone too bright. He's younger than Arthur, maybe a little older than John. Hosea shakes the thought from his mind.

Hosea wants to tell him to go, to find a horse and go find his outfit. But the boy can’t move, he doesn’t squirm as Hosea approaches him, his legs don’t twitch with the urge to run. One more shot and his gut would be torn open entirely. 

“Please,” the boy wheezes. He glances at Hosea’s pistol in his hand. Hosea nods.

“What’s your name, son?” Hosea asks. He knows it won’t make it easier for himself, but it’s what the boy deserves. 

“Jim,” he says, his mouth trying to shape a surname and failing. His eyes flutter quickly. Hosea sighs, kneels, readies his pistol. Against his better judgment, he takes the boy’s cold, blood-slick hand. As the boy stares through Hosea’s face his chest gives on long, shaky heave and his distant eyes suddenly go still.

Hosea lets out a unsteady sigh and holsters his gun. He rises, sees John watching him, standing with the other O’Driscoll slung on his shoulder. Hosea looks away and bends down to hoist the boy’s - Jim’s - body over his own shoulder, making for the treeline.

They bury Annabelle just outside of camp, and Hosea stays by Dutch’s side without touching him until Dutch tiredly shoos him away. 

Hosea should feel remorseful, he imagines, that Annabelle met such a fate instead of him. Instead his only regret is for the relief he feels that Colm would rather leverage with him than kill him. 

“We don’t have to leave just yet,” Hosea tells Susan. “Colm won’t be back here. Take your time.”

“You know I hate being in a place where something rotten like this has happened,” Susan says. 

“Rotten things have happened all over this country. Things far worse than this."

“I’ll have us ready to go by dawn,” Susan says. “I’ll leave Mister van der Linde to you.” 

Hosea nods, watches Susan go. He looks to Dutch, sitting at the foot of Annabelle’s fresh grave, and makes for Dutch’s tent to pack his things. The pain in his tight shoulders seeps into his ears. 

+++

They set up camp again miles away to collect themselves, to let Dutch get a handle on his endless raging. All his usual rants about Colm O’Driscoll become longer and more practiced, and he shouts with anger far more than he cries. Annabelle’s memory becomes an extension of Colm’s lack of principles, so far as Hosea can tell, and Dutch holds tightly to it like a dog with a bone. He starts making plans, sitting up late, busying himself with his ideas. Hosea listens, talks him down - or up - as he sees fit, and tries to stay out of the way.

+++

Uncle is making his rounds through camp, recruiting people for a game of euchre - to christen the new camp, he says. Hosea watches him, wondering if the passive dread in the back of his mind comes from Uncle's nearing approach or from John and Dutch arguing behind him. 

Uncle fails to convince Arthur to play and moves on to asking the young man Arthur has been working with, who, to Arthur’s apparent dismay, accepts the invitation. 

Hosea dumps out his coffee and gets up, his knees popping shouldering his rifle as if he's going somewhere with purpose.

"John!" Hosea calls, walking toward Dutch and John. They stop arguing and the sudden silence draws half the eyes in camp. "Come with me. I need your help with something."

Dutch and John both look at Hosea gratefully, and he pretends not to notice. John picks up a rifle as they walk out of camp. Hosea gestures for John to slow down, waits for him to fall into step with Hosea and his stiff hips and knees.

"What are we doing?" John asks. 

" _I'm_ avoiding playing euchre with Uncle again. The bastard always cheats." 

"And you don't?"

"Well...he's no good at it, so it's not very fun." 

John huffs a laugh and lights a cigarette.

“Sure. Thanks for getting me outta there. Dutch is being awful dramatic,” John says. 

“Well, he's in a difficult spot, John. He lost someone he loved."

John is silent for a moment except for his lazy footsteps through the brush covering Hosea's soft ones. 

“He didn’t love Annabelle,” John finally scoffs, “not really. Not…well, not family-like."

Hosea looks at him, surprised to hear John say something Hosea has kept buried so low in his mind. But Dutch’s tendencies are hardly a secret, after all.

“John - “ Hosea says, and his voice sounds more scolding than he intends. 

“Don’t you go telling me I don’t know,” John says, tossing his cigarette aside in frustration. "I know some things. I know everything you and him have said about love all these years. And some things you didn’t say. And I know Dutch didn’t love her. Or he did, I guess, but not the way he said. I think Annabelle knew it, even. Hell, goddamn Colm O’Driscoll knew it. Don’t go acting like you don’t."

Hosea feels a catch in his chest. He did know - though to articulate the thought himself came with too much guilt. For all the endless love Dutch seems to have in his heart, there's just as much anger, and Hosea knows too well that Dutch often lowers his bucket into the wrong well.

“It ain’t even about you,” John says, jerking his chin up to flip his hair from his eyes and look at Hosea. “We’ve both seen him. He was more worried about Colm than her, and Colm’s all he talks about now. It ain’t even about Annabelle now."

Hosea starts walking again and John falls into step. 

"All I'm saying is if he loved her as...the way he said, he'd be wailing up a different storm.” 

“You may be right,” Hosea nods. 

“Arthur agrees with me,” John says with finality. Hosea breathes a laugh. "He said it's almost just like with Miss Grimshaw. And Miss Grimshaw said he’s only so upset ‘cause Dutch wasn’t done with her yet.”

“We can always count on you to say things in the ugliest way, can’t we?”

“It ain’t ugly. It’s just how it is."

“You're smarter than you let on, Mister Marston,” Hosea says.

“It’d be more embarrassing for you than me if I wasn't, what with all the work you put in,” John says simply. Hosea laughs and nods.

Hosea and John come back to camp once the sun has gone down and Uncle has put himself into a drunken sleep at the fire. Hosea greets him loudly as he passes. 

“No euchre, I take it?” Hosea asks as Uncle jerks awake. 

“Couldn’t find a fourth,” he slurs. 

“That’s a shame,” Hosea says. 

He keeps walking, seeing the lanternlight glowing from Dutch’s tent. He raps on the tentpole.

“Who is it?” Dutch’s voice comes.

“Who else?” Hosea says. 

“Come in,” Dutch says. Hosea pushes the tent flap aside. “You don’t have to knock, you know.”

“Yeah, well…” 

“I know,” Dutch sighs. Dutch is sitting on the floor of his tent, looking at a map. Hosea sits down on Dutch’s cot and puts a hand on his back, feeling the tension vibrating in his shoulders. 

“How long have you been on the ground?” Hosea asks. 

Dutch shrugs feebly. Hosea moves over on the cot and gently digs his thumbs into the hard muscles across Dutch’s shoulders. Dutch sighs sits back, leaning into Hosea’s touch. Hosea knows Dutch’s musculature and all of its tensions better than his own, and he wonders for a moment where that knowledge would go if Dutch were no longer there, wonders if anyone would learn it after Hosea is gone. He pushes it from his mind.

"Hosea," Dutch says, so quietly that Hosea isn't sure if Dutch said anything at all.

"Yeah?" 

Dutch turns his body to face Hosea, kneeling on the ground between Hosea's knees and dropping his head onto Hosea's shoulder, wrapping his arms limply around Hosea’s waist. Hosea lightly wraps his arms around Dutch, a familiar shape he hasn’t held in so long, not since before Annabelle met her fate. He feels small in Hosea’s arms, in a way he’s never felt before. Dutch lets out a shuddering sigh. 

"Dutch?" Hosea asks softly.

“I let her die,” Dutch says. Hosea feels his own jaw clench.

“You know it’s more complicated than that,” Hosea finally says, because it’s the only truth he can offer. 

"It could have been you," Dutch says, like he doesn't want to hear himself say it. Hosea remembers the look in Colm’s grey face, the threat in his small eyes. 

"It wasn't," Hosea says. He tries to guess at how many nights Dutch has sat awake without any sleep.

“We’ve gotta do better,” Dutch says, with surprising decidedness given how tired he is. “If I can’t…all of them out there, Hosea, they’re…what are we doing if we ain’t protecting them?” 

Hosea sighs, tightens his embrace around Dutch’s shoulders, and wonders, not for the first time, how Dutch has lived so long without ever seeming to learn something before it’s too late. 

+++

Hosea spends the summer trying to rein Dutch in, to clean up his messes before they happen, and to stay out of his way. His back aches endlessly, his lungs kick up a fuss, and he pretends that it’s always been that way. 

He regrets the relief he feels knowing that by the bizarre rules of Dutch and Colm’s games, Colm’s move has been made. He regrets it until he sees the same relief in John and Arthur, who move a little lighter, seemingly free of a load they likely did not realize they carried. Hosea feels a twinge of guilt in the back of his mind over Annabelle being martyred, and he tries to brush it away with jokes to himself about it being his closest brush with being Catholic yet. 

They stay put longer in each place, moving only to follow money and to stay out of the way of the O’Driscolls as much as possible. The money keeps coming, the work keeps going, and the gang grows and dwindles and grows again, moving slowly west, leaving the O’Driscolls and civilization and Annabelle’s grave behind them. 

The summer fades into cooler days and Dutch finally exhausts himself in his anger and falls silent. Dutch stops mentioning Annabelle unless Colm is brought up, and his eyes clear up, and some of the lines melt from his face.

Hosea finds Dutch staring into the fire one night, his eyes tired and the lines around his mouth deeper than Hosea remembers. 

“Hey, brother,” Dutch greets him. 

“Doing okay?” Hosea asks, coughing visible puffs of steam into the cool air. Dutch stares into the fire.

“No,” Dutch laughs coldly. Hosea claps him on the shoulder.

“I can tell.”

“I’m exhausted."

“Let’s get you to bed, then.” 

Dutch sits stiffly, his muscles tense under Hosea’s hand. Hosea squeezes his shoulder and Dutch stands up slowly, sighing, and makes his way toward his tent. Hosea follows him, waits in the entryway as Dutch settles in, lighting his lantern.

“Don’t let me keep you,” Dutch says. 

“No, I’m staying.”

“Hosea…”

“Dutch.”

Dutch sighs.

“I’ll go get my bedroll."

“No, no. It’s fine,” Dutch says, sighing as if he’s put up a fight, as if Hosea doesn’t know that Dutch hates sleeping alone almost as much as he hates Colm O’Driscoll or anything else he rails against.

Dutch moves over and Hosea moves into the tent, coughing softly as he reclines next to Dutch on his narrow cot - a tight fit but a pleasant one, Dutch as warm as ever against Hosea's side. It’s been less than half a year, but Hosea realizes with a pang of sadness that he had been longing worth more than that for the way things once were.

"When was the last time you slept?" Hosea asks. Dutch thinks. 

"Two days ago." 

"It shows," Hosea says. Dutch's lips are chapped, his eyes dark and heavy. Hosea smooths out Dutch's brow with his thumb, pushes his hair from his face. 

"Hosea," Dutch starts. Hosea watches him, waits, but Dutch only looks at him mournfully. Finally, with decisiveness, he furrows his brow and says, "I can't lose you.”

“You don’t have to,” Hosea says. Dutch sighs, but says nothing, closing his eyes and shifting closer to Hosea.

Hosea wakes up too warm, with an arm hanging off the cot and Dutch pressed against his back. The sun is already too bright through the tent. 

"Dutch," Hosea says softly, nudging him with his elbow. Dutch grumbles and lets go of Hosea's waist, rolling over. Hosea sits up and sniffles and stretches. 

Dutch pulls himself up and plants a dry kiss on the back of Hosea's neck, stubble unusually rough against his skin. Hosea dramatically lifts his hand to his skin and turns to Dutch over his shoulder.

“Have you given up shaving?” Hosea asks. 

“Trying something new,” Dutch says, running his hand over a stubbly mustache. “Do you not like it?”

“I’m sure I’ll get used to it,” Hosea says.

"So you don't like it." 

"I've gotten used to many worse things. Luckily I already like you." 

"I never would have guessed," Dutch says. Hosea leans back against him and Dutch rests his head on his shoulder. Hosea can feel Dutch's stubble through his shirt.

"You okay?" Hosea asks. Dutch sighs.

"I will be. As long as you're here, Hosea. You’re all I need.” 

1893

Arthur rides into camp with his jaw set in frustration. He drops a newspaper into Hosea’s lap where he sits at the fire. Hosea puts away his knife, sets down the wood he had been whittling, and unfolds the paper. Arthur huffs as he sits down, angrily spooning stew into his mouth. Hosea watches him for a moment over the top of the paper.

“Everything alright there, son?” Dutch asks. 

“Oh yeah, Dutch, it’s just fine.”

“Trouble with that girl?”

“She’s got a name, Dutch,” Arthur says, dropping the spoon into the bowl. Hosea bites back a smile behind his paper, silently proud of Arthur for putting Dutch in his place. “And the trouble’s with her father.”

“That’s the nature of fathers,” Dutch says. 

“He thinks he can just bully his way around, get whatever he wants out of anybody,” Arthur says. Hosea lowers the paper to listen. “You oughta see the way he treats his own son.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” Dutch says, stiffly lowering himself to sit next to Arthur. 

“Mary just makes excuses for him. She knows he’s wrong, it don’t stop her from defending him. I keep on telling her she can leave - she won’t. Won’t say why, just says she can’t.”

“Women like that will always be trouble,” Dutch says, lighting a cigarette. Hosea shakes his head. 

Arthur retires to his tent and Dutch moves to sit on the ground next to Hosea. He produces a deck of cards, wordlessly dealing Hosea into a game of rummy. 

The camp falls silent as the sound of a horse riding into camp approaches, too quick and unfamiliar to be anyone they should expect. Hosea and Dutch turn to look as Bill shouts something in alarm from the scout fire, finding an elegant horse trotting into camp, ridden by Mary Gillis herself, one hand on a rifle laid across the saddle. Hosea has only seen her in passing before, walking arm-in-arm with Arthur in town while Dutch and Hosea were working on a lead.

The flaps on Arthur’s tent fly open and he emerges half-stumbling with his gun in his hand. 

“Arthur Morgan!” Mary calls out, her horse stamping its feet as she reins it to a halt. Arthur’s eyes widen at the sound of her voice and he slowly looks over to her. Dutch chuckles to himself and Hosea elbows him. 

“Mary,” Arthur acknowledges, flustered, holstering his gun. 

“You can run off on my father but you can _not_ run off on me, Arthur,” Mary says, gracefully swinging herself down from her horse, ignoring the eyes of the camp on her. Arthur walks over to her, softly pets the nose of her horse. 

“Can we take this somewhere else?” Arthur asks, as quietly as Arthur can manage.

“You went and created a scene with my family and don’t think I can do the same?”

“That ain’t it, Mary - “ Arthur turns to Dutch and Hosea at the fire, “do you fellas mind if I take a walk?”

“Go right ahead, son,” Dutch says, hiding a laugh. 

“Go easy on him, Mary, we’ll still need him even if you don't,” Hosea calls. 

Arthur visibly huffs a sigh, gently takes Mary by the elbow and the reins of her horse in his other hand, leading it to a hitching post. 

Susan _tsks_ to herself, not looking up from her game of cards with Pearson, though Pearson is entirely gawking at the scene. Hosea brings his paper back up to his eyes. 

“I don’t think I like that girl,” Susan finally says.

“Oh, Miss Grimshaw, don’t be so bitter,” Dutch chides. She straightens up. 

“Someday you two will learn to trust me about women,” Susan says. 

“Well, she’d make a fine outlaw,” Dutch says.

“She certainly would," Hosea says. Susan has nothing to addd, but her cards are laid down a little more loudly and she scolds Pearson for not taking his turn. 

Hosea is stoking the fire again when Arthur and Mary return from their walk. Arthur still looks flustered but Mary has relaxed, holding onto his arm and talking softly. Arthur’s face is tensely drawn, looking around the camp until he locks eyes with Hosea, giving him a vaguely desperate look. 

“Have you two resolved yourselves?” Hosea asks as they come to the fire. 

“I guess,” Arthur says stiffly. 

“Mary! Arthur!” Dutch calls, striding over to the fire. Arthur restrains a groan and Hosea snorts a laugh. “Why don’t you two stay for a bit, have something to eat?” 

“Oh, no, Dutch, I don’t think - “ Arthur starts, his voice coming from the back of his throat in his panicked way.

“Only if it’s no trouble,” Mary says. Arthur sets his jaw but accepts it. 

Mary joins them for their late dinner, seeming to sincerely enjoy the simple meal of game and stolen goods. She carries herself with a careful pride and speaks warmly to everyone, even Miss Grimshaw. John sits silently and watches her, looking equally intrigued and disturbed by her presence. She talks at length about her father and her brother in a restrained way, as if self-conscious, though she speaks of them fondly. 

Something in her reminds Hosea of Arthur, in her quietly stubborn temperament and likely-foolish loyalties. 

Dutch tries to invite her for a game of cards and Arthur stands up abruptly, offering her his hand. 

“I gotta get you home,” Arthur says, and she takes his hand and stands up. Hosea can see the _or your father…_ threatening in Arthur’s expression, and he admires his restraint.

“I can get myself home just fine,” Mary says, and Arthur shrugs and walks her to her horse, talking to her quietly while he strokes her horse’s nose. 

“Hosea,” Dutch says as he pulls the tent flap closed behind him, taking off his jacket

“Huh?” Hosea lays his book on his chest and puts his hands behind his head. He watches Dutch unbutton his vest, noticing not for the first time that Dutch’s body has softened, filling his shirts more at the waist than he used to. It’s a privilege to see someone grow older and change with their years, Hosea thinks. He bites his lips to hide his smile as Dutch looks up at him. 

“What do you think of that Mary girl?” Dutch asks, and Hosea knows the question is an invitation for Dutch's thoughts more than Hosea's own.

"She seems like a good woman," Hosea says, because any more would fall on deaf ears. He does like Mary, if only because Arthur likes her and because Mary reminds him of Arthur.

"A good woman, sure. But for Arthur?" Dutch scoffs.

"You worried he'll leave?" Hosea asks, though he knows the answer, and Dutch casts his eyes away. Hosea sighs. "He'd leave for her as soon as she'd leave her family for him. Which is to say, never." 

It pains Hosea to say it, to speak a heartbreak into existence. Hosea watches relief and disappointment play equally across Dutch's face. 

Dutch hums and sits down on the cot, saying nothing, visibly thinking. Hosea raps his fingers on the back of Dutch's arm, brings him back. Dutch laughs softly to himself.

“That father of hers, on the other hand, with all his - “

“Robbing the girl’s father is too far, Dutch, even for you,” Hosea laughs. "At least wait until Arthur is through with her. Or until she's through with Arthur, rather."

“Oh, Hosea,” Dutch says, moving the book from Hosea's chest and leaning down to kiss him quickly on the mouth. "Think better of me." 

"I think far better of you than you probably deserve, dear," Hosea takes Dutch's face in his hands to hold him close, his stubble pleasantly rough against Hosea's fingers. Dutch shifts to balance himself over Hosea with a hand on Hosea's hip, pressing his nose into Hosea’s neck.

"Well, I appreciate that very much," Dutch says softly. Hosea lightly squeezes at the softness of Dutch's waist and Dutch picks up his head to look at Hosea's face. “Stop."

"Your age is catching up to you," Hosea squeezes him again. Dutch rolls his eyes. 

"Rich, coming from you," Dutch says, stroking his knuckles over Hosea's temples where his hair has gone so grey. 

"Oh, well that's mostly your fault," Hosea says. He untucks Dutch's shirt and spreads his hands over Dutch's skin, warm and familiar under his palms. "Don't worry, Dutch. It suits you." 

"So does this," Dutch says, firmly kissing Hosea's hair. 

"It suits me or you?" Hosea asks. Dutch laughs.

"Both." 

1894 

Dutch comes to sit next to Hosea with a neatly-bound book. Hosea taps Dutch’s boot with his toe in greeting but doesn’t look up from his own reading.

Dutch kicks Hosea’s boot and Hosea sighs, looking over the top of his book.

“Hey, old girl. You up for some dominoes?” Dutch asks.

“What’s the occasion?” Hosea lowers his book to his lap.

“Do I need an occasion?” Dutch asks. Hosea looks at him skeptically and Dutch’s eyebrows come together. 

“Is there something you know that I don’t? You’re acting like you’re gonna take me out and shoot me,” Hosea says. Dutch scoffs.

“I just know you’ve been having trouble,” Dutch says. Hosea drops the front legs of his chair to the ground and lays his dime novel facedown over his knee. 

“What?”

“Your breathing. I hear you whistling all night long.”

“Sure. It’s worse than usual,” Hosea says. “But it’s nothing I won't get through. Doesn’t mean I’m dying."

Dutch looks at him doubtfully and chews his lips. Hosea pretends not to see it and returns to his book. The cool air has been taking its toll, as it often does, and Hosea doesn’t pay it half the mind that Dutch seems to. Every cough sends Dutch worrying, so Hosea makes himself care even less - even if Dutch’s panicking makes him reconsider his own confidence in the depths of his heart that this season won’t be the one that kills him. 

“Quit looking at me, dear,” Hosea says without looking up. Dutch sighs and opens his book again in his lap.

+++

Arthur brings a girl back to camp, with Uncle in tow. Arthur is angry, his jaw set forward in frustration, his voice tight as he explains to Dutch that he found the girl being harassed by Uncle while she was running from somebody she had robbed. She’s young, her face still soft and rounded, her dark hair falling out of its ties and into her face. Arthur stands between her and Uncle, waiting before Dutch like a judge. The girl’s eyes flicker around the camp and grow ever more wary at the faces of the men around her. 

“What’s your name, dear?” Dutch asks.

“Abigail Roberts,” she says, and her eyes move from Dutch to Hosea. Hosea offers her a nod.

“A pleasure, Miss Roberts. Dutch van der Linde. Now, if you need food and a place to lay your head, it would be…I am proud to provide it.” 

“I do appreciate it, but I really think I’d be better off - “

“If you got somewhere else to go then I’ll gladly take you there right now, Miss,” Arthur says. One of Dutch’s usual plays, Hosea thinks. She looks at Arthur, then back to Dutch and Hosea. 

“I don’t wanna be any trouble,” she says.

“It’s no trouble at all, Miss. It’s what we do,” Dutch says. “You stay as long as you need. Don’t let any of these buffoons bother you."

The girl looks surprised. Arthur glances around camp, gauging the looks of the men who reluctantly gawk at her. Besides Miss Grimshaw, women rarely stay in camp for long before they move on on their own. 

“Thank you,” the girl says, though it sounds like a question.

“Of course,” Dutch says, and turns to call over his shoulder. “Miss Grimshaw, would you arrange something for this young lady?”

Abigail looks to Arthur, then to Hosea. He gives her a nod that he hopes is reassuring and, brows furrowed over her light eyes, she nods back.

+++

Abigail stays, brings back good money that she assures everyone she stole rather than earned, and quickly learns that hanging on Miss Grimshaw’s side is not the place for her to be. She attaches herself to Arthur and John, who cautiously accept her company. Hosea enjoys her conversations when she offers them - whenever John and Arthur are busy and Dutch isn't stuck to his side. Abigail plays dominoes with Hosea, beats him often and to his great joy to finally have a worthy opponent.

When caught on her own, the other men proposition her and leer at her. Arthur gets into enough fights over it to scare most of them off. Hosea stops them, Miss Grimshaw shrieks at them, but it continues. Arthur throws one passer-through out of camp, tossing his bedroll in his face, when the man tries to touch her one too many times.

Hosea sometimes wonders why Abigail stays, though he imagines, like with any of the others, the safety she finds in the gang is more than the safety she would find otherwise. Sometimes a safe place to lay your head is enough, Hosea thinks, understanding it all too well.

Hosea finds Dutch sketching lazily by lanternlight in their tent. 

“Dear Hosea,” Dutch greets him.

“You got a minute?” Hosea asks. Dutch looks up as if preparing to be annoyed.

“For you, always,” he says stiffly. Hosea leans against the tentpole.

“Dutch, you need to make it clear to them that Abigail isn’t an asset,” Hosea says. Dutch sighs. “You know I’m right.”

“Yes, I do. You usually are,” Dutch rubs his hands over his face. "You do so like to worry after women, Hosea." 

"You've heard what Susan says. What...other women say. Why do you think they're always so quick to leave when the men are walking around here like feral dogs?"

"I’ll talk to them."

“Thank you. Susan hardly looks out for her and they only listen to me so far on matters like this. You know that.”

“I know, Hosea,” Dutch says. 

"I mean it, Dutch."

"So do I." 

"You know how the men are. Hell, you..." Hosea catches himself and stammers, knowing it's too late, that Dutch knows him too well - the gift of intimate years coming back to bite. Hosea steels himself, thinking underneath it all that - as much as it frightens him - he’s lucky to be known so well that even his rash hurtful words can be predicted.

"I what?" Dutch asks, his voice icy. 

"You know how they are," Hosea says.

"I ain't _like them,_ " Dutch says. Hosea sighs. 

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You didn’t have to,” Dutch returns to his sketch, holding his pencil with visible firmness. Dutch is already frustrated, Hosea thinks, so he may as well use it as leverage.

“Then make sure they follow your example," Hosea says. Dutch stares at him, wounded, and Hosea turns to go.

Dutch stays at the fire until no one else is left. Hosea finds him there, watching light run through the embers like insects. 

"Dutch," Hosea says, testing the waters. 

"Hosea," Dutch says, nothing to be read in his voice. 

"I'm sorry," Hosea says, the words light enough that Hosea wonders if they even fall on Dutch's ears. 

Dutch sighs. Hosea sits down next to him.

"Who do you think I am?" Dutch asks, his voice low but oddly free of anger. Hosea sighs.

"It ain't about you. Or me," Hosea says. "It's about them.”

Dutch nods. They sit in silence. Dutch leans his knee into Hosea’s and Hosea pushes back. The fire crackles. 

“We’d be lost without you, Hosea,” Dutch says. 

“So you like to say,” Hosea says.

“I did talk to them. Caught them leering at Abigail like they do and got after them.”

“Good,” Hosea says. He knocks his shoulder against Dutch’s. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Dutch echoes, leaning into Hosea’s shoulder in turn. 

1895

For some time they don’t move very far. Arthur is relieved to stay close to Mary, despite everyone else’s skepticism - save for that of Abigail, who seems to like her, though Hosea suspects she may only be happy to have another young woman for company at long last. The work is good, and they stay comfortable enough that no one has to work too hard, and encounters with the O’Driscolls remain few and far between. Hosea spends his days working, or fishing, or offering impromptu reading lessons, or coercing jailers into freeing any of the gaggle that Dutch has collected. 

They rob a few banks, some trains, enough stages. Hosea runs long cons where he can, with Dutch and Arthur at his side. They all leave money behind where they can, though they need more of it in camp than they used to, with more strangers coming and going than before, and more of them staying for longer.

Dutch is at ease, and it puts everyone else at ease. For the first time, Hosea thinks Dutch might be truly comfortable. He touches Hosea with more reverence than desperation again, and Hosea welcomes it happily. 

Abigail stays with them, makes herself comfortable. She enjoys her friendly safety with Arthur and John, accepts Hosea’s invitations to teach her to read. 

Abigail and John find some solace in each other - after John overcomes his apparent terrific fear of Abigail - being the youngest two in camp, making an odd set of friends. They fascinate each other with their youth and their differences, and they bring back impressive takes together even without Arthur’s guidance. 

Other women stay a while longer than they did before Abigail, and the men who pass through quickly learn better than to bother them. Two of the women keep on moving with the gang - a romantic young woman that Hosea and Dutch had found running from men she had robbed in some nowhere town, and a hard-drinking gun-toting conwoman who impressed Arthur enough for him to bring her back. Miss Grimshaw makes them her responsibility, to their great dismay and resistance. Dutch finds great entertainment in it, but it mostly disturbs Hosea enough to make him look away.

One day Dutch points out, in a shocking moment of observance, that John is wrapped around Abigail’s finger. It becomes their favorite entertainment, watching John follow her and watching Abigail act as if she doesn’t know, spinning endlessly closer to one another.

One night, standing aside from the joyfully raucous dinner around the fire - Pearson and Uncle arguing over something likely false on Uncle’s part, being heckled by their audience - Hosea elbows Dutch and Dutch looks at him. 

“Is it what you always wanted?” Hosea asks Dutch one night. Dutch beams.

“Better,” he says, and bumps his shoulder into Hosea’s, and Hosea tucks his chin to chest and smiles.

+++

“Hey, Hosea,” Abigail approaches Hosea where he’s tacking up his horse. 

“Abigail,” Hosea says.

“Are you headed into town?” Abigail asks, petting Silver Dollar’s neck.

“I am. You need something?”

“Could I come with you?” Abigail asks, a note of uncertainty in her voice.

“Of course, dear. You got a horse?”

“Arthur said I could borrow Boadicea.” 

“Alright. I’ll wait for you,” Hosea says. He watches her saddle and mount Boadicea, who stomps her hooves but accepts Abigail as a rider. 

“Thank you,” Abigail says as they ride out, Hosea ahead and Abigail behind. “Think if I spent another hour there I’d wind up killing somebody.”

“Did you have anyone in particular in mind?”

“Miss Grimshaw,” Abigail says. Hosea laughs. 

“I don’t imagine many would complain. You and I would have even more work to do, however.”

“You’re right,” Abigail laughs. “What are you going into town for?”

“I just need to buy a few things. Maybe find some work. We’ll see.”

“Maybe I could help,” Abigail says. Hosea looks over his shoulder. 

“Sure, if you want,” Hosea says. “You can take a look around town while I pick up a few things.”

“Okay,” Abigail agrees. Hosea glances over his shoulder again and sees her smiling, a rare and welcome sight on her young face.

Hosea is loading his saddlebags when Abigail catches his arm. Her eyes are blown into a scarred-looking blue in the lowering gold sun. 

“What’d you find?” Hosea asks. Abigail discreetly presses a coin purse into his hand and he bounces it, laughs, and hands it back to her. “Keep it, you earned it.” 

“I can get more. I’d appreciate your help.”

“Oh, Miss Roberts, it would be an honor,” Hosea says. Abigail beams at him and he offers her his arm as they start walking. “Lead the way. What’s your plan?"

“The saloon over that way. You don’t need to do much. I just…usually I have Arthur or John for this. I feel better about it when someone’s around, just in case.”

“I know,” Hosea says. “I used to do the same. When I was on my own, then with Dutch.”

“You?” Abigail laughs, a warm and thrilled sound. 

“Sure. I got up to all sorts of things that would surprise you,” Hosea offers her a wink. 

“I would sure love to see that.”

“Those days are long behind me, but I appreciate your enthusiasm," Hosea says. Abigail pats his arm and lets him go as they approach the saloon.

Hosea is happy to watch Abigail play her games with the men in the saloon, amazed at her sleight of hand that even Hosea misses more often than not. To both their lucks, Hosea’s protection is not needed, and they make off back to camp with a hefty haul of jewelry and poorly-stowed folding money. 

“Hosea,” Abigail starts, riding alongside him on the road.

“Abigail.”

“Thank you. For taking me into town. And the help with reading, and…everything, really.”

“Oh,” Hosea doesn’t bother to hide the surprise in his voice. “It’s my pleasure, Abigail.”

“I appreciate it,” she says. Hosea nods. 

“You keep some of that that you stole today. You earned it. If they’re not careful you’ll put Arthur and John to shame.” 

Abigail laughs, a sincere and gentle sound. 

“We should do this more often,” she says. 

“Sure,” Hosea says, feeling a content pride swell in his chest. 

+++

Abigail and John are fighting before the sun is above the trees. As the others join Hosea at the fire, Abigail and John only get louder. 

Hosea pours Arthur a cup of coffee, joins him on the log where he sits. Dutch stands behind them, smoking his morning cigarette. 

“Even the two of you wasn’t ever this bad,” Arthur muses, elbowing Hosea and glancing back at Dutch. 

Dutch rumbles a laugh in his chest and Hosea scoffs into his coffee, the steam blowing up into his eyes. Arthur tilts his head and holds a hand out to Hosea as if to shush him. John and Abigail have left their tent - which they only recently began sharing - still shouting.

“Abigail, what are we gonna do with a _baby_?“ John asks, his voice especially raw.

“Ah shit,” Arthur breathes. Hosea lowers his coffee, avoids looking at the argument now moving closer to the fire. Dutch taps Hosea’s shoulder. The others have all fallen into uneasy silence. 

“I don’t know, John, we could always _raise it,_ “ Abigail says, her voice tinged with desperation. “Ain’t much else we _can_ do.”

“We? How do you know it’s even mine?” 

Arthur inhales sharply, moves to get up. Dutch steps forward, puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder to hold him in place. Hosea looks up at Dutch’s puzzling, listening face.

“John, you _know_ how it’s been the whole last _year_. There ain’t been anybody else,” Abigail’s voice wavers slightly at the end. 

“All I’m saying is - “ John is cut off by Abigail’s palm landing harshly on his cheek. John stares at her, his eyes flashing with a boyish woundedness, and he turns and starts for the horses, nearly running. 

Abigail stares after him, her lip twitching slightly, and then comes to the fire and sits down at Hosea’s side. Pearson awkwardly holds a bowl of stew out to her, and she takes it with shaking hands but sets it down between her feet.

"I'll talk to him later," Hosea says softly. 

"Hell, I'll talk to him now," Dutch moves to go but Arthur rises first, patting Dutch's chest as he goes. 

"I got it, fellas," Arthur says. He gives Abigail a look before he leaves, something frustrated but compassionate. 

Abigail leans against Hosea and sighs, a high and shaky sound. Hosea puts a hand on her back, finds her painfully warm with impending tears.

"Here, hold on," Hosea says quietly. He gently pulls Abigail's hair off her neck, apologizing as she flinches, and braids it loosely over her shoulder. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees to see her face. 

“Don’t you worry about it, Miss Roberts, you know how he is. You know we’ll take care of you till he learns to behave,” Dutch says, patting her shoulder. Hosea looks up at him, catches a flash of anxiety on his face, and turns back to Abigail.

1896

Jack is a quiet baby, quiet enough that when he does cry it still surprises Hosea to be reminded that there’s a baby in camp. Everyone vies to hold him or play with him, and he seems content to be passed around, smiling up at everyone all the same. He even softens Mac and Davey, a pair of brawling brothers who made themselves at home with the gang, beloved despite their rambunctiousness and troublemaking. 

John is frightened of him, avoids his rare fussing like a rattlesnake, and stays out longer each time he leaves. Abigail muscles John into holding Jack whenever he isn’t making excuses to keep himself busy and away from the baby. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Abigail confesses to Hosea one night at the fire. Hosea squeezes her hand, looking around camp.

Dutch is sitting just out of earshot with Jack in his arms, talking to him quietly while Arthur watches with a tender and mournful look on his face. For the first few months, Arthur seemed unable to even look at Jack, but the further away that John keeps himself the closer Arthur allows himself to get. Arthur never mentions Isaac, but Hosea can see the guilt in his face when he looks at Jack, though it’s slowly fading. 

“He’ll come around. I’m sure,” Hosea says.

“I can’t wait forever, Hosea,” Abigail’s voice breaks. “I didn’t ask for any of this either, but I ain’t got a choice.”

“We’ll take care of you both,” Hosea says. 

“I know, but…”

“I know. But you've got us no matter what he does. You’re lucky. Most women don’t have a dozen sets of helping hands these days,” Hosea says.

“You’re right,” Abigail nods.

“You and Jack will be just fine. You have plenty of folks looking out for you.” 

“Thank you, Hosea,” Abigail says. She leans into him and sighs. Hosea watches Dutch talk to Jack, who looks up at him wide-eyed from his swaddling.

+++

For a week John acts like a man with cactus needles under his skin. He snaps at everyone, earns a reprimand from Dutch, gets into a scuffle with Arthur for the first time in years. John’s restlessness makes Dutch restless, which makes everyone else restless, so Dutch announces that everyone needs to settle down and get back to work. 

John is tacking up his horse and stuffing his saddlebags early one morning. 

“You need some supervision, Marston?” Arthur calls to him, coming back from guard duty. Hosea sighs. 

“No,” John calls back. 

“You better not go running off on your woman and your boy,” Arthur says. “I seen that look in your eye."

“Yeah, I’m sure you know it well, Morgan,” John snaps. Arthur bristles and 

“Arthur, please,” Abigail pleads, sitting at the fire with Jack in her arms. 

“Ain’t worth it anyway. He does what he wants,” Arthur mutters, and turns to go. Hosea can see the frustration in John’s shoulders. 

"Hosea, can you..." Abigail looks at him pleadingly, getting up with Jack in her arms, "can you take Jack while I talk to John." 

"Of course." 

"Thank you," Abigail gently deposits Jack into Hosea's waiting embrace and gathers her skirt to chase after John.

Hosea takes Jack in his arms, holds him close to his chest, and he feels an echo of his mother in the motion. He realizes, with some indecipherable sadness, that before Jack was born he hadn't held a baby since he was close to being one himself, just at the tail end of boyhood. But it feels as natural and practiced to cradle Jack in his arms and watch his round sleeping face as it does to ride a horse or reach for his gun.

He surrenders to a smile, letting Jack's weight rest pleasantly against his chest. He feels his mother in his bones again. He can nearly see her for how strongly he feels her posturing in himself.

Jack sniffles and opens his eyes, looking up at Hosea with all his infantile wonder. 

“Hey there, Jack," Hosea says softly. Jack blinks, looks around, but doesn't cry. He closes his eyes again and quickly falls asleep, his head resting against Hosea's arm. 

Hosea can hear the tones of Abigail and John arguing somewhere out of sight. 

"Do you mind?" 

Hosea looks up to see Dutch standing over him.

"Not at all," Hosea carefully moves over to make room for Dutch on the log next to him. Dutch sits down, his shoulder pressed against Hosea's. 

"How is our little Jack doing?" Dutch asks. 

"Seems this great big world has overwhelmed him and put him right to sleep," Hosea says. 

“He’s lucky,” Dutch chuckles, gently touches Jack's hand where it peeks out of the blanket, accepts Jack's tiny sleeping grasp around his finger. Hosea can see Dutch smiling in the corner of his eye. 

"You know, Hosea," Dutch says, the drawn-in tones of amusement clear in his voice, "motherhood would suit you." 

"So you've said," Hosea says. Dutch has said it often, in odd little jokes in passing that leave Hosea charmed as much as wondering.

Jack stirs and squirms slightly, moving closer to Hosea's chest, and Hosea pulls the blanket around him a little more snugly. He catches himself smiling over it again.

"Having regrets?" Dutch asks, and his voice is tender enough that it isn't a test, but if Dutch is asking then he's already thinking it himself. Hosea feels a twinge in his chest. 

Hosea looks down at Jack, thinks of John and Abigail and the years he's given them, the years he'll give to Jack himself, the echoes of himself that will fall on Jack through Abigail and - should he come around, and Hosea reckons he will - John. 

"Never," Hosea says. “I’ve got everything I need."

“I talked to John,” Dutch says, taking off his boots and jewelry. 

“I imagine that was a fulfilling conversation,” Hosea says. He’s heard Dutch’s conversations with John, always full of dramatics about not abandoning his family - either of them, whether he leaves or not. John ignores most of it, stubbornly holding eye contact with Dutch and saying nothing. 

“Oh, it was,” Dutch says dryly. Hosea lies back, puts his hands behind his head. “All he wants to do is fight.”

“He learned from the best, after all.”

Dutch laughs, climbs over Hosea on the narrow cot and settles in behind him, pulling the blankets over them both. 

"Even with all of John's...nonsense, it's nice having Jack around," Dutch says. 

"It is," Hosea says. "Children are good for people." 

"You're good with him," Dutch says.

Dutch wraps an arm around Hosea, presses his nose into Hosea's neck. Hosea shifts to look at Dutch, and Dutch looks back, and for once he doesn't say anything. 

The things that Hosea wants to ask bubble up in his throat, held back only by that he doesn't know how to ask them - and the knowledge that if he did, Dutch wouldn't be able to answer. There are some things that even Dutch can't manage to say, no matter how many words he can use. 

Hosea sees fear flickering reluctantly over Dutch's face and knows that there must be fear clearly painted on his own face as well. Dutch gets up on his elbow and looks down at Hosea, the concern solidifying in his face. 

"Dear Hosea," Dutch says softly, like the start of a prayer. Hosea swallows hard. "Don't look so troubled."

"I try," Hosea says. Dutch finds Hosea's hand in a blind and practiced motion, squeezes his fingers as he lifts Hosea’s hand and softly kisses his knuckles. Hosea nods, gently pats Dutch’s face, and reaches over to put out the lantern. Dutch sighs, a sad sound laced with rare resignation, and pulls Hosea close in the dark. 

+++

Hosea is reading outside his tent, the low evening sun still warm on his face. Dutch is sitting with him, just close enough for Hosea to feel him. Hosea’s eyes keep scanning the words on the page, though he reads nothing, only hearing the faraway tones of Arthur and Abigail talking quickly and quietly. He looks at Dutch, sees no apparent awareness of anything around him. 

Finally Hosea hears Abigail’s quick, determined steps followed by Arthur’s resigned ones coming up across the dirt.

They come to stand before him and he looks up at them.

“John’s gone,” Abigail says, before Hosea can greet her, her voice hard and defeated. Hosea feels a knowing pang of frustration in his chest, something slow and unsurprised. He stiffly rises and Dutch jerks his head up from his book. Arthur stands behind Abigail, arms crossed, looking unmoved. 

“Well, we should go look for him,” Dutch says. Arthur groans and shakes his head. 

“He don’t wanna come back, Dutch. I already looked for him. He may be an idiot but he knows how to keep from being found.”

“We can’t just give up on him,” Dutch says, his voice becoming frantic. Hosea puts a hand on his back, threatening to fist his fingers into Dutch’s shirt to hold him in place. 

“He sure gave up on us,” Arthur scoffs. “Don’t act like he ain’t been planning this. You all saw him pacing around here like a dog in - “

“Arthur,” Hosea cuts him off. Arthur sighs. “I’m sure he’ll be back. Let him have some time, you know how he is.” 

“I know how he is, alright."

“Arthur, you said you looked for him?” Dutch asks.

“Yeah, it's why I was gone all day.”

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Abigail asked me not to,” Arthur shrugs. Abigail casts her eyes down.

“No sign of him?”

“No."

Dutch retires to his tent, frustrated and with stiff, heavy footsteps. Arthur looks at Hosea, tired and annoyed. 

“It’ll be fine, Arthur,” Hosea says. Arthur grinds his teeth. “Are you alright, Abigail?” 

“Oh, I’m fine. Better off without him, probably,” Abigail says, though her voice still wavers. 

“I’d say,” Arthur says. Hosea shoots him a look.

“Abigail, let’s get you some food,” Hosea says. She nods and lets him take her by the arm. 

+++

In John’s absence, Dutch is far away. When he isn’t staring off into nothing as if it puzzles him, he’s trying to sell Hosea and Arthur on plans that he’s hardly thought out. Hosea plays his delicate game of following along and negotiating plans into something more reasonable while Arthur simply shuts them down, refusing to entertain it. So Dutch fights with Arthur, and Hosea chases them each around to talk them down, and Dutch apologizes to Arthur with cigars and whiskey, and Arthur apologizes by accepting them, and they both apologizes to Hosea with guilty silence. And then it begins again.

Dutch sheds more than a few frustrated tears over John, alone with Hosea on riverbanks or by moonlight or in the darkness of their tent. Hosea lets him, tells him over and over that it’s John’s choice, that Dutch couldn’t have changed his mind any way. Dutch just grinds his teeth over it, seemingly unable to comprehend that John would up and leave. 

Dutch holds Hosea tighter at night, and Hosea often lies awake wondering how much more deeply Dutch will be rattled when he’s gone, praying that Dutch won’t wake up and notice how frantically Hosea’s heart flutters in his chest.

+++

Riding back from scouting out a bank job, Arthur and Dutch start arguing about the feasibility of the heist as they planned it. Hosea rides silently behind them both, grateful it’s happening in relative privacy. He admires their horses, unbothered by the anger being thrown around above their heads. 

“If you don’t trust me then you don’t have to help,” Dutch says. Arthur is silent for a hard moment.

“Quit acting like I’m John,” Arthur says, a firm anger in his voice. “Just be mad at him if you’re gonna be mad.” 

“What the hell are you talking about, Arthur?” Dutch asks, his voice unusually steady. 

“You know what I’m talking about. You ain’t been normal since he left. I ain’t him, Dutch. I won’t leave.” 

Arthur is right, and Hosea knows that Dutch knows it. He can see the defeat and pain in Dutch’s shoulders. Hosea has spent enough nights now listening to Dutch worry over John, over Arthur, over Hosea himself, and has spent enough days listening to Arthur complain about Dutch’s irrationality.

“Gentlemen,” Hosea calls from behind them. They both turn to look at him, identical annoyance flaring in their faces, nearly making Hosea laugh. “Can we wrap this up before we get back to camp?”

They both fall silent, and Boadicea falls out of step with the Count, and they ride wordlessly back to camp. 

“Dutch,” Arthur says, just as the scout fires come into view through the trees.

“Arthur,” Dutch says cautiously. 

“Sorry.”

“I know, son,” Dutch says, and as if it pains him, “I’m sorry, too.”

They dismount and get their horses settled in for the night, and Arthur disappears, likely to check on Abigail as he so often does. Dutch gently takes Hosea’s wrist and Hosea turns to him. 

“Take a walk with me,” Dutch says. 

Hosea shrugs and follows him into the treeline, and they walk until all the noises of camp are hardly distinguishable from one another. Dutch pulls Hosea by his jacket, leaning against an old, thick tree. He rests his hands on Hosea’s hips, but Hosea doesn’t touch him. Dutch looks at him, confusion painting his face in the low light.

“Dutch,” Hosea says, and Dutch watches him, waiting. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?” 

“You know what. I don’t want to be a part of this…distraction, or delusion, or whatever it is. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to keep convincing me. Don’t patronize me.” 

“You think that’s what this is?”

“Sometimes. You think I can’t tell? After all this?” 

Dutch sighs, tips his head back against the bark of the tree. Hosea flexes his hands, his knuckles cracking. 

“It ain't like you, Dutch,” Hosea says, and Dutch blinks hard. “Come on. Don’t make me walk back alone.” 

“What do I have to do, Hosea?” Dutch asks, grabbing onto Hosea’s arm as Hosea starts walking. 

“I don’t wanna do this when you’re upset,” Hosea says. “Not like this."

Dutch says nothing. He takes Hosea’s hand and squeezes his fingers. Apology enough, Hosea thinks, and squeezes back. 

1897

Arthur makes himself twice as useful in John’s absence, complains in a guarded and roundabout way to Hosea whenever Dutch doesn’t seem to notice him. Hosea tells him to stop striving quite so hard, to no avail. 

No one mentions John or his absence, save for Arthur in anger and Dutch in sadness and Abigail in her frustration. 

Arthur finally takes to Jack, often sleeping away the heat of the day with Jack sprawled on his chest in the shade, his dog at his side. He hovers around Abigail and Jack as if he can make up for John’s neglect, though anyone can see the care in his face. 

When Mary visits she sits with Jack in her lap as she talks with everyone. She becomes tentative friends with Abigail, neither of them seeming to understand each other despite liking each other well enough. 

Mary stops coming around, and after a few months without word about her Hosea finally asks after her while hunting with Arthur.

“She wouldn’t have me,” Arthur says. His voice is hard. 

“No?” Hosea asks. His heart sinks despite his lack of surprise. 

“Said she wanted me to make up my mind. And I guess I couldn’t. But she couldn’t either. Why she strung me along so long, I guess.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Hosea says. 

“It’s fine. I’ve been through worse. I almost…I reckon Jack made her realize…well, you know.”

“I know,” Hosea says, and thinks of Dutch for a fleeting second. Arthur sighs. 

“It’s fine. I got you all. Don’t see why I need more than that.” 

“Sure,” Hosea nods, feeling sorry for the things he can’t provide. He thinks regretfully of Jack, and his footsteps suddenly feel as heavy as his heart.

+++

Hosea is standing the last night watch when the sound of some familiar horse starts up the trail to camp. He swings his rifle into his hands and rises, not ready to alarm anyone. He steps toward the trailhead, waiting in the silver light that comes just before dawn. Surely enough, a John-shaped shadow emerges, leading his horse.

“Oh, thank God it’s you,” John says softly.

“I could say the same. Anyone else’d have been liable to shoot you once and for all.” 

“I know. Glad you’re still taking the early watch,” John stands before him stiffly, Old Boy nosing his arm behind him. “Think I can hitch my horse?”

“That’s up to you,” Hosea says. John nods. “I’ll start some coffee. About that time anyway.”

Hosea quietly stokes the fire and John hitches his horse, then sheepishly comes to sit at the fire, his elbows on his knees. He doesn’t look much older, but his hair is longer and he looks sadder, a little less arrogant than is usual for him. 

Hosea wordlessly prepares coffee while John half-watches, the morning birds starting to sing their slow waking songs in long notes. Hosea sits back while the water boils and looks John over while John glances around the camp.

“How you been, John?” Hosea finally asks.

“I…don’t know. Lonely. And confused, I guess. How’s Abigail?”

“She’s just fine. Angry as hell, like always, and rightfully so. You know that. But she’s fine. That girl’s got a better spirit than most, I’ll tell you that.”

“Is Jack…”

“Jack’s just fine. Too young to think much about it. He’s got everyone else to take care of him, too. And he would if you were here or not.” Hosea says. John puts his face in his hands. 

“I just didn’t wanna do him wrong.” 

“You did anyway,” Hosea says. John winces, but nods. 

“Is Dutch…how is he?”

“He’ll be glad you’re back. More than anybody else, I’d reckon.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s been shaken up about it. He might try and yell at you, but he’ll be happy to see you. Arthur, on the other hand - “ John puts his head in his hands and Hosea laughs “ - you’re gonna wanna watch out for him.”

“He still mad?”

“That may be the stupidest question I've ever heard. And I raised up you _and_ Arthur.” 

John laughs sadly and sighs.

"What about you?" John asks. He flexes his hands on his knees. 

"What about me?" 

"You mad?" 

"No," Hosea says, and he means it. "Do I think you did a damn foolish thing? Yes. But I can't blame you. And I'm too old and I know you too well to be angry." 

"So you're mad,” John says, an echo from years ago, from any of the times Hosea would have to speak with him.

"That ain't what I said, John." 

"You said enough. I shouldn't've left but I shouldn't've come back neither. But I got nowhere else to go, and I...I ain't a man who can be alone." 

"Nobody is," Hosea says. John sighs and puts his head in his hands. Hosea hears Dutch stirring in their tent, with his usual morning grumbling and shuffling. Hosea pours a cup of coffee and passes it to John. “Here. You’ll need it.” 

John sips his coffee and his eyes sparkle as he sighs into his cup.

“Ain’t had good coffee all year,” John says. “Mine is always muddy. And I think I measure everything wrong.” 

“Only you could complicate a thing like coffee, John.”

“I know.”

“Salt will settle the grounds."

“I know, I remember. It still comes out muddy every time,” John says. Hosea nods into his own cup, understanding that John means to say he missed him. 

“When you live this long it’s just something you get good at doing. You’ve got time to learn."

Behind John, Dutch emerges from the tent and lays his eyes on John’s slouching form. He looks in surprise to Hosea, then looks over his shoulder. 

“Well,” Dutch laughs, and struts over to the fire to plant himself next to John. “I thought I was dreaming that I heard you out here.”

“Hi, Dutch,” John mutters. 

“You had better not run off like that again, son,” Dutch says, with none of the anger that Hosea has been hearing for the last months. Hosea imagines that will be the end of his scolding, at least until John next frustrates him and Dutch dredges it up. John knows it, too - Hosea can see it in his tired face. “But I’m glad you’re back.”

“Glad to be back,” John says. “Learned my lesson.” 

“Good, good,” Dutch says. He looks to Hosea. “Is there coffee?” 

“Yes,” Hosea says. Dutch looks at him for a moment before realizing that Hosea expects him to pour it himself. Someone starts moving around behind Hosea and John looks up, looking entirely terrified. Hosea looks over his shoulder to see Arthur blinking himself awake and shuffling toward the fire, his jaw set with frustration.

“Thought I heard some damn fool out here,” Arthur says, stepping past Hosea and pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Thanks, Hosea. Dutch, I’m on my way to check out those fellers you mentioned in town today. Should be back late.”

“Alright, Arthur,” Dutch says, his voice wavering slightly with irritation and confusion. Arthur goes back to his tent. John exhales and scrubs a hand over his mouth. 

“He’ll come around,” Hosea says. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Just stay out of it, Hosea. I probably deserve it.” 

“You might, but we don’t deserve to put up with hearing it all,” Hosea says. John sighs. 

“Is there any food?” John asks. “I’m starving.”

“I’ll find you something,” Dutch gets up. He returns moments later with jerky and bread and John takes it gratefully.

John eats while Dutch and Hosea talk quietly about their plans for the day. The camp wakes up around them, everyone shuffling and mumbling past the fire, greeting John with varying enthusiasm. Susan sits down with him to drink her coffee, squeezes his shoulder fondly. Hosea makes a second pot of coffee, chats with everyone as they start their days. 

Bill greets John enthusiastically enough to attract the attention of Mac and Davey, who both insist that John rise for an embrace. He accepts it, stubbornly as he does everything. They needle him with questions about where he’s been, and the ruckus is enough to rouse Abigail, who comes to the fire sleepily with Jack on her hip. 

Her presence sends the men scattering, leaving John standing before Abigail like a guilty dog. 

“Abigail,” John says stiffly. Hosea watches Abigail’s face flicker with emotion, and she turns to Hosea and deposits a hardly-awake Jack into his arms. He’s getting heavy, Hosea thinks, and tries to remember how small Jack had been when John left nearly a year before.

Jack fusses, and Hosea rises from his seat and steps away from the two of them, gesturing for Dutch to follow him. He secures Jack on his hip and hushes him. Dutch comes to stand next to Hosea, holds his arms out for Jack wordlessly. Hosea shifts Jack into Dutch’s arms and watches him doze on Dutch’s shoulder while Abigail cries in relief and frustration behind them.

+++

John returns to his work more dutifully than ever, bringing back good takes and more or less cooperating with everyone in camp - save for Arthur, who will have nothing to do with it and takes to working on his own or with Hosea. Hosea spends ride after ride trying to ease Arthur into some kind of patience, but Arthur steadies himself more stubbornly than ever. 

“You know what you're doing, Arthur. sometimes you have to let people make their own mistakes. I sat by and watched you make plenty of your own,” Hosea tells Arthur, riding slowly back to camp after an early morning of fishing.

“I know, Hosea.”

“It would be in your best interest to get over whatever this is,” Hosea says. Arthur sighs heavily. “I know it’s hard, Arthur, but John’s mistakes aren’t yours. You can’t change what’s happened.” 

Arthur is silent. For the first time Hosea can remember, Arthur seems truly cross with him. 

+++

Hosea takes his time with John, hears remorse in his voice and sees love in his motivations, tries to push him in the right directions. He seems to stay afraid of Jack, says often that he worries he might do Jack wrong. 

“It can’t be avoided, John,” Hosea tells him, sitting at the scout fire watching Tilly play with Jack in the wildflowers nearby. "Even good men make those mistakes. Me and Dutch certainly did you wrong more than once. It’s everything else that really matters.” 

“I don’t know,” John sighs. 

“Well, I do. You’ll see it eventually,” Hosea says. He stands up stiffly, feeling his knees fighting him. “Tilly, I believe you owe you a rematch. John can watch the boy.”

“Sure, Mister Matthews,” she says, gathering her skirt and standing up, holding Jack’s hand as he totters over to John.

“Hosea is fine, please,” Hosea tells her. She smiles at him.

“I’ll call you Hosea once we even our record, Mister Matthews,” she says. Of everyone they collected in Dutch’s frenzy at John’s absence, Tilly is Hosea’s favorite, even if she puts Hosea’s dominoes reputation to shame.

“Alright then, Miss Jackson,” Hosea laughs, looking over his shoulder at John looking at Jack, holding his small hands in utter bewilderment. “I’ll get the dominoes.”

+++

Dutch worries over Arthur and John more than he did when they were young, with a regularity that reminds Hosea of prayer. 

“They’ll be fine,” Hosea tells him, as he does time and time again. Dutch sighs, covers his face with his hands where he lays on the cot. “When it comes down to what matters, at least.”

“Arthur’s angry with me. I know you two talk,” Dutch says. Hosea rests his elbows on his knees, sitting at the end of the cot. He feels Dutch’s bent knee resting against his back.

“And I told you what he tells me. He says you’ve been too easy on John.”

“What was I supposed to do? I didn’t want him running off again.”

“He wasn’t going to, Dutch. He already came back. I’m not saying Arthur is entirely right, Dutch, but you have to understand his frustration.”

“Oh, I do,” Dutch sighs. Hosea straightens up and rests his arm on Dutch’s knee to look at him. “It ain’t like I can punish John.”

“No, no, he’s been punished enough. But you’re acting like nothing’s happened. Arthur thinks you’re favoring John, is all. He trusts you, Dutch, probably more than he should trust anybody. He thinks it’s a bad example, acting like John’s a hero for coming back when he wasn’t supposed to leave in the first place.” 

Dutch looks at Hosea tiredly, crossing his arms on his chest.

“Doesn’t John deserve to know we still love him, even after all that?” 

“Sure. But that doesn’t mean leaving Arthur in the dust. He’s mad enough at John as it is. He doesn’t need to be mad at you, too."

Dutch stares at Hosea and works his jaw as he thinks. Hosea watches him, still balanced against his knee, until he looks away, nodding to himself. 

1898

Hosea wakes up cold, tiredly throws an arm to his side looking for Dutch and finding nothing. He grumbles to himself, sitting up on the cot and blinking himself awake. It’s too bright in the tent, too noisy outside. He rises, straightens himself up, and steps out of the tent. His head throbs behind his eyes and his joints ache - too much sleep, he thinks. He yawns and coughs as his breath catches in the cool air.

Dutch is sitting at the fire with John, talking quietly in tones Hosea knows as their work voices. 

“Morning,” John calls as he sees Hosea over Dutch’s shoulder. “Or afternoon, more like.”

“Yes, you’re one to talk, John. After all those years of us tripping over you while you slept all day,” Hosea says. John scowls for a moment but laughs.

“How’re you feeling?” Dutch asks, looking over his shoulder and gesturing for Hosea to sit down next to him on the log. 

“Tired,” Hosea says. “Why’d you let me sleep so late?”

“Seemed like you needed it. You didn’t sound so good last night and I tried to wake you this morning but you weren’t having it.”

“I don’t even remember,” Hosea says, rubbing his face. “Glad you can wake up on your own after all these years.”

“Yeah, well,” Dutch says. 

Hosea laughs, and it turns into a barking cough that burns high in his chest. He feels Dutch and John looking at him and turns away, coughing into his arm. 

“I’m fine,” he finally chokes out, but he knows there are tears in his eyes from the strain of coughing, can feel the heat of them in his eyes. 

“You don’t sound fine,” Dutch says. “Go back to bed. I’ll rustle up some whiskey.” 

"I'm fine," Hosea says. Dutch stares at him expectantly. 

"You look like shit, Hosea," John says. 

"Thank you," Hosea and Dutch say at the same time, and Hosea's laugh comes out as a cough again. 

“Go get some rest,” Dutch says.

“What are you two planning?”

“Nothing we can do without you. So go get some rest, Hosea,” Dutch says. 

Hosea shakes his head and surrenders, pours himself some coffee, and returns to his tent. He sits down on the cot and pulls the blankets around his shoulders, sipping his coffee and feeling its warmth in the raw part of his chest. It sets him coughing again, a rattly bark that he expects should taste like blood, though it doesn’t. 

The tent flap pushes aside and Dutch steps in, taking Hosea’s coffee and shoving a bottle of whiskey into his hands. The thought of its heat in Hosea’s chest is too much, and he sets it on the ground, coughing as he leans over. When he straightens up, Dutch is watching him with apprehension, his arms crossed. 

“I’m fine, Dutch.”

“You don’t sound fine.” 

“Dutch,” Hosea says, rubbing his face, realizing how hot his skin is. “Even if I ain’t fine, there’s nothing you can do about it. You know that.” 

“Hosea - “

“Actually, there is one thing you can do. You can stop fretting so much over me,” Hosea says.

“You know I ain’t good at that,” Dutch says, and he sits down next to Hosea with a sigh. 

“I do,” Hosea says. He leans into Dutch and his eyes feel heavy, so he lets them close. 

“You’re warm,” Dutch says, and he shifts to feel Hosea’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Oh, Hosea.” 

"I think I _will_ go back to sleep,” Hosea says. Dutch nods and moves so Hosea can lower himself to the cot, and Hosea closes his eyes.

The next days pass feverishly, Hosea falling in and out of sleep through slivers days and nights. His chest aches with a burning rattle and he finds himself coughing up something brown whenever he’s awake. He hears Dutch come and go, replaced most often by Arthur or Abigail, sometimes by John, all of them bringing him water and stew and cocktails of medicines. He longs for the strength to argue, to tell them to go on with their days. 

Unable to rise from the cot by himself, pinned down by the pain in his lungs, awake and alone with his illness in the lanternlight, he thinks of his mother. The last time he had been so sick that he couldn’t sleep he had awoken to his mother’s frightened, saddened face next to him. He had recovered, and as soon as she was convinced of his survival she had sent him away, and that had been that. 

His chest burns, and he thinks of his luck to not have fallen so sick in all the years since then. It would only make sense, he imagines regretfully, that this be the bout that kills him. 

He’s already lived too long many times over, and he’s known that for some time. To die now would be fair, the only injustice would be him leaving people behind. 

If he’s going to die now, he thinks, he would rather it happen sooner than later. But he feels some protest deep in his bones, some voice telling him he has time left yet. He isn’t sure if he should be grateful.

On a bedroll on the ground, Dutch is asleep - restlessly, by the sound of it, his breathing light. Hosea resists a cough, hoping not to wake him, and feels himself falling back into sleep. 

+++

Hosea finds the strength to get out of bed finally on a cool evening, wearing two coats and walking stiffly. Dutch tries to stop him but Hosea brushes him off, shaking his head. Arthur makes room for him at the fire, and Pearson passes him a bowl of soup much more full than the others. 

“Glad it didn’t kill you,” John says, and it breaks the silence enough that the other start talking among themselves again.

“Not yet,” Hosea says, with a smile and a laugh. 

Hosea spends the next week sitting at the fire with whoever decides to join him. Abigail thanks him for making coffee again, saying Pearson’s is too weak and Miss Grimshaw's is too strong. 

Dutch makes strange, small conversations with him, otherwise keeping to himself. Hosea notices it, knows that the others do as well, judging by their strange looks whenever Dutch does talk to him and they overhear it. 

He finds himself thinking often of death, as much as he tries not to. He discovers that he cannot think of his own death without thinking of Dutch and all that would be left behind with him. Hosea resents the pain that rises in his chest.

+++

Dutch doesn’t come to bed. He rarely does before Hosea is asleep now, and Hosea wakes up in the mornings to Dutch sleeping on his bedroll on the ground.

Hosea gets up and feels his body protest against it, pulls on his coat despite the warming weather, tugs on his boots, and steps out of the tent, resisting a cough. He finds Dutch alone at the fire, his elbows on his knees. 

“Dutch,” Hosea says. 

“Oh, good. I was about to come and see you,” Dutch’s voice is light, almost enthusiastic.

“Why?” Hosea asks warily. 

“I got a plan, Hosea,” Dutch says softly. “This is a good one.”

“Sure. I’m listening. But Dutch - “

“No, no ‘but Dutch.’ I promise you, Hosea, this is a _good_ one. I think…” Dutch pauses to gauge Hosea’s attention, “I think we could slow down. There’s a lot of land out further west where no one will be looking for years still, ain’t nobody gonna look at us twice or even come looking for us out there. I mean all of us, the whole gang.”

Hosea watches him for a moment, wondering if he’s joking. Dutch slowing down isn’t something Hosea would ever dream of, and Dutch suggesting it is another surprise entirely. But Dutch’s face doesn’t change. 

“You, the great Dutch van der Linde? Talking about settling down?” Hosea finally says. 

“Not _settling down,_ dear Hosea, just slowing down. God knows we’ve earned it.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Hosea says. 

“Either way. I think we could do it. Another year of hard earning and we could be right. Get some land somewhere, all of us, enjoy the rest of our lives. I’m…starting to tire of running. And I worry about you.”

Hosea says nothing, and Dutch watches him, careful and expectant. It’s not like Dutch, but very few things _have_ been like Dutch in recent weeks - not his panic, his distance, his silence. Hosea nods, feeling a shiver try to creep up his spine. 

He thinks over Dutch’s plan, hears abacus beads clicking against each other in his head. Dutch’s more ambitious plans are usually only met halfway - they would slow down, yes, but without land or any formalities. Land is hardly realistic anyway, Hosea thinks, not for them, no matter how much money they have. But together they’ve never embarked down a road they couldn’t follow.

Hosea feels Dutch watching him, waiting for an answer, and he sighs, coughs twice. Slowing down would be good, he thinks, for whatever years he has left, should he even live to see the next one. 

“Sure,” Hosea finally says, "I certainly wouldn’t mind gathering some moss.” Dutch looks relieved.

“I know,” Dutch says. “You know we can do it.”

“Sure,” Hosea says, because it’s all he can say. 

Dutch shakes his arm and smiles. Hosea nods, lowers his head, and coughs quietly against his chest. 

That night Dutch does stretch out on the cot - his cot, Hosea thinks - with Hosea, a welcome warmth in all the remnants of Hosea’s chills and pains. Dutch falls asleep quickly, and Hosea watches his face in the low lanternlight, thinks about all of Dutch’s ideas. Wherever they land, Hosea doesn’t care - so long as they’re headed in the right direction, they can always make do. 

+++

Hosea gets out to go fishing, for the first time in a long time. Arthur follows him, not talking much, but seeming content enough. He still doesn’t fish with Hosea, but he sits quietly and whittles and talks when something comes to mind. Hosea is as grateful for it as ever, seeing precious glimpses of a much younger Arthur in the way he drops himself gracelessly to the ground and hides under his hat. 

“Do you think Dutch means it?” Arthur asks, his voice cracking from his silence. Hosea resists a sigh. 

“One way or another, yes.”

“He ain’t been normal since you got sick.”

“I know.”

“No, Hosea. Was like he couldn’t even think while you were all laid up.” 

“I know. John told me, too. This ain’t something I’m gonna come back from. I ain’t as young as I was. Don’t go repeating that to Dutch, though. I’m sure he knows, but…well, you know how he is.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Someone’s got to. I reckon if I make it through the next six months I’ll get through the next few years. But I’ve already lived too long.” 

“Hosea,” Arthur says. Hosea shakes his head. 

“Arthur. My life has already been far better than I deserve.”

“It ain’t over yet, you old man,” Arthur says. “Quit acting like you’re dying tomorrow. For my sake, if nobody else’s.” 

“Alright,” Hosea says softly. Arthur lays back on the pebbled bank of the river and sighs. Hosea sees Arthur’s youth and age play over his face like oil and water, blinks hard against a pain rising up in his throat, and looks away. 

+++

Dutch decides that Hosea is improved enough long after Hosea has determined himself capable of travel, and they start moving southwest. Dutch rambles on about virtues all the way, entices a few wanderers along the way, including a loud and blundering Irish boy who had tried to rob Dutch until Hosea stopped him and Dutch dragged him back to camp more or less by his ear. He attaches himself to Arthur, to Arthur’s great and tired dismay. 

Dutch calls up the plan in longing moments, when the world seems like it’s moving too slow. They spend long nights talking about it, about the next steps, about slowing down. California, Dutch keeps saying, and all its untouched wilderness and opportunities. It's what he sells the others on, though Hosea stays quietly skeptical, seeing his own thoughts reflected in the faces of John and Arthur. Hosea has never much liked the thought of California, where there's nowhere else to go but backward should things grow bad or old.

If it weren’t for how many people they’re responsible for now, Hosea would relish in how it feels like old times, like so long ago when they were planning the same great adventure that brought them here. Everything is an adventure for Dutch, for better or for worse. Hosea only wishes it wasn't quite so nervous. 

So they move further, and California comes closer, the end of the earth and the end of an adventure, as far as any of them are concerned. Hosea can tell it makes Dutch nervous, like an animal being pushed ever closer to a corner. The mountains are cold, and Hosea finds himself coughing more, sleeping later, and working harder to quell the anxieties he sees in Dutch and Arthur alike. 

When Dutch finally changes his mind on California, Hosea is unsurprised. He doesn't argue about it, no one does, though he sees concern in a few eyes throughout camp. A few of the strays leave, and Dutch loses sleep over it, though Hosea is painfully grateful to have less people to worry over. Hosea is once again not surprised when Dutch abandons a lead on some land, though he makes no secret of his displeasure that Dutch is keeping them wandering still. 

Slowly Dutch starts talking with the excited romanticism he uses for things that are just out of reach, things he knows are unattainable but would rather die than stop striving for. As always, Hosea tells himself that he’s content to meet Dutch’s fantasies at that realistic halfway point that Dutch somehow sees so far beyond.

Hosea ponders it - perhaps too much, because Dutch seems to see something of it in his face - wondering silently about self-fulfilling prophecies. Hosea wonders if Dutch expected him to live this long, if his plans were a dreamy distraction from Hosea’s inevitable departure, some game he’s dragged everyone else into. Hosea hates to think of it.

+++

The sky feels close in Blackwater. The stars seem to look back at their audience. The sky glows orange and starless toward town. When Hoses looks up at the sky at night his spine tickles and his shoulders shake. Someone walking over his grave. With how bad his cough has been - still a painful bark that leaves his ribs and back aching - he may be the one walking over his grave in the West Elizabeth dust. 

Dutch and Arthur plead with Hosea to take it easy, and despite his protests he gives in. He and Arthur find easy work in town, onto a trail that could be profitable at a low risk with the local businessmen who are, as they say, making the most of their riverfront location. 

Dutch is onto other things - bigger things, he says, so they can wrap up this leg of their adventure. Those other things prove to include collecting a number of delinquents from Blackwater and the surrounding towns. Dutch catches most of them trying to rob him, and Hosea and Arthur tease him privately for it. 

"That's the second time this month you've nearly been robbed, Dutch," Arthur chuckles, Dutch having brought back some new young man in worn, fine clothes and with bright eyes and a bursting bag on his shoulder. 

"Is there something you're trying to say, Arthur?" Dutch asks. 

"I believe he's saying you're slipping, dear," Hosea says. Dutch groans. 

"I ain't _slipping."_

"They take you for a fool enough to rob you and then still follow you back here. I guess you still got something," Arthur laughs, sucks on his cigarette. Dutch shakes his head. 

+++

Things are easy. The gang is bringing in good money, the O’Driscolls are scarce, and Dutch’s eyes are sparkling again. He seems to have everything he’s wanted out of his ventures - a business model, some semblance of a family, Hosea himself - and Hosea imagines it should put them both at ease, but it doesn’t. Staying so close to a town for so long is a bad move, and he tells Dutch often in private, so as not to worry the others. Dutch begs him for patience and faith, though Dutch seems to have little of either himself. 

Dutch insists that there’s more to be done in Blackwater, and that _more_ somehow includes bringing back some dissatisfied Irish girl who thought life had promised her an adventure. She seems entirely taken by Dutch, and Hosea watches Dutch reluctantly accept her affections, returning them because that’s simply what Dutch knows how to do. Hosea takes to sleeping on the ground again, leaving Dutch to his devices and insisting on the convenient truth that the fresh air is better for his lungs. Dutch looks wounded over it, but promptly returns to his recently-usual distracted self and hardly seems to notice Hosea’s absence.

Molly does not play dominoes with Hosea, nor does she mingle with the rest of the gang, nor does she help around camp. Hosea finds it easy enough to ignore her - so easy that until he runs into her at Dutch’s tent he often forgets she’s there at all. 

+++

One afternoon Dutch invites Hosea to help him with something in town, _for old time’s sake_ , he says, leaving Hosea wondering if it’s actual work or it’s some impulsive excursion like they haven’t had in years.

“What do you think of Molly?” Dutch asks the moment their horses’ hooves meet the road. Hosea hangs his head for a moment and straightens up. 

“I think you need to be careful with her.” 

“You don’t trust her?” 

_I don’t trust you not to hurt her,_ Hosea bites back, because it would hurt to hear himself say it. 

“I think she expects more from you than what you’re expecting to give her,” Hosea says. Dutch hums. “It ain’t fair to lead her on like that.” 

“Rich, coming you.”

“You cannot possibly hold against me that I miraculously fended you off for months and then _still_ ended up spending twenty-odd years indulging you in your every whim,” Hosea says. Dutch laughs, clearer and louder than he has in some time. 

“ _Almost_ every whim, old girl. And admirably never without a fight,” Dutch says.

“Well if I’d given in every time then you’d have gotten bored with me,” Hosea says, a half-truth that he almost regrets speaking aloud. 

“Hosea,” Dutch pulls the Count to a halt and Hosea circles back to face him. Silver Dollar stamps his hooves. “Don’t you say things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Things like that that ain’t true.”

“I never worried once that you’d be through with me, Dutch.”

“Good. Because I wouldn’t, no matter what, and you know that. I wouldn’t want you to think that.” 

“Alright, Dutch,” Hosea says. Dutch nudges his horse into motion again and Silver Dollar falls into step beside them. “Miss O’Shea, however...”

“What about her?”

“I can tell you’re bored of her already.”

“Well…” Dutch starts, then laughs, “She’s just…well you know how she is. How I am.” 

“I do,” Hosea says. 

Dutch changes the subject, starts talking about the ports in Blackwater and the saloons full of easy marks. Hosea listens, humming where he’s supposed to, like keeping time for a long-familiar song. 

They do end up working - playing cards late into the night, drinking here and there. Dutch’s face is pink when they finally get to their room, laughing and hanging on each other, money and a few playing cards falling from their sleeves and pockets as they undress. Dutch numbly picks up the cards and bills and coins, lays them sloppily on the nightstand. It feels like old times, almost, even with Hosea's coughing fits and aching body.

“Blackwater will be a good town for us,” Dutch says, alcohol lilting his voice as he falls onto the bed, “and then…repose in the virgin forests, Hosea. We'll get some land where nobody will think nothing of us."

“Sure, Dutch,” Hosea tugs the covers out from under Dutch and covers them both. 

“Do you doubt me?” Dutch asks.

“No,” Hosea says, and for a moment he wonders if Dutch will hear a dishonesty in his voice that isn’t there.

Dutch sighs and moves closer to Hosea, pulling him close against his warm body. Hosea lets him, feels Dutch’s hand curl in the front of his shirt the way he did so long ago, when they were so much younger.

“Nice to be in a real bed again,” Dutch murmurs.

“Careful, Dutch, you’re sounding old,” Hosea says as he puts out the light. It _is_ nice to be in a real bed again, and nicer to be with Dutch again - though he feels guilty for the warmth in his chest while the world seems like it’s starting to shake beneath their feet in ways he can’t understand. 

“Maybe I _am_ old," Dutch muses.

“Then I’d hate to know what that makes me.”

Dutch laughs sleepily, tugs at the blanket, and Hosea lets him. He falls quickly into his usual softly-snoring sleep, leaving Hosea staring into the darkness with Dutch’s hand heavy on his chest, feeling mournful of something - though of what, he doesn’t know. 

1899 

Hosea is sitting alone at the fire, listening to the night sounds of the gang setting down, the coyotes in the nearby distance chattering back and forth to each other, their voices meeting somewhere above Hosea's head. He watches the logs turn white in the flames, cracking like old bones.

"You alright, old girl?" Dutch asks, sitting down next to him. He leans his knee into Hosea's and hands him a half full bottle. Hosea hesitates, then takes it. He feels an echo of his father in the way he brings the bottle to his lips and he furrows his brows, but clears his throat. 

"Dutch," Hosea says, "I need you to hear me out." 

"Alright," Dutch says, dark eyes watching Hosea with a glimmer of fear. Hosea reaches for Dutch’s hand, trying to smooth the fear away to no avail. 

“You know that I’m with you. No matter what. But I think...” Hosea sighs, hesitating, but it’s too late to turn back. He lets go of Dutch’s hand. “I think it’s time for us to go and slow down for good. Like we planned.”

“Slow down like we planned,” Dutch repeats flatly, though Hosea knows it’s a question.

“Yeah. We’d have the means. Go north a bit, get lost in some woods like we said.”

“Hosea,” Dutch says, with a warning tone that sends Hosea’s skin crawling.

"Dutch, if we settled down somewhere out here in the middle of nowhere we’d both be dead of…old age by the time anyone caught on. This can’t go on much longer, not here, not anywhere. We’re running outta country and places we can show our faces. We have money, more than enough to see us through."

“Oh, Hosea,” Dutch says, with a wry laugh.

“You know I’m with you. And that’s all I want, really. But I’m tired,” Hosea sighs and rubs a hand over his face, “I’m old, and I’m sick. And I go where you go, but…it would be easier if we could be in one place. That was the plan, after all. There are so many of us now, and the women, and Jack. It ain't like it used to be, with just the few of us running around. We can’t do this forever. You know that." 

Dutch watches him, and Hosea can see in the set of his jaw that Dutch is thinking hard and that his eyes are likely itching with frustrated tears that won’t fall. Hosea wants to reach out to touch him, resists it with an ache in his chest.

“We’ll be in one place, Hosea,” Dutch says. “We need a few more months, maybe. Or one big job. And then we’re moving on and settling up in someplace for good. I swear. Trust me, Hosea. I _will_ get us where we need to be. All of us, safe and sound.”

“We already have the money, Dutch."

“We’re almost done, my brother, trust me,” Dutch covers Hosea’s hand with his own and leans over, kissing Hosea's cheek as he rises to his feet. Hosea is muted by all the things he wants to say _._ Dutch claps him on the shoulder as he turns to go, and by the time Hosea reaches for Dutch’s hand, it’s gone.

He listens to Dutch walk away, the footsteps he knows so well disappearing under a rushing sound in Hosea’s ears and the sudden racing of his heart. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you made it this far then thanks for reading! please consider dropping me a comment if you're still here - it doesn't have to be thoughtful or anything. i'll have chapter five up...hopefully by the end of the month if i can get my other work done in good time. 
> 
> UPDATE 9/2: i'm adjusting to a new work schedule (thank god for work!) and will be back on my shit SOON
> 
> you can find me on [my main twitter](http://twitter.com/thehubbins), and i have fandom stuff and fic updates on [my alt twitter.](http://twitter.com/jukebxgrad) i'm also on [tumblr](http://hubbins.tumblr.com) a few times a week. other contact info is in my bio.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has MAJOR SPOILERS for the whole game. if you are for some reason here without having finished the game proceed at your own risk. 
> 
> sorry for posting so late (i know i said i'd have it up by the end of august) but my work schedule was kicking my ass and then i had to deal with like a hundred big life transitions including my little brother being relocated for work across the state with 2 days notice. thanks for the patience, i hope the wait was worth it.
> 
> this chapter kinda suffers from like. the game's writing being lowkey disastrous. i did my best. really had to confront how weird the game is while writing this.
> 
> this is about 20k, good luck, especially to the midnight readers. 
> 
> sorry for any typos, i've been putting off replacing my keyboard bc money. hopefully ao3 doesn't eat too much of my formatting.

1899

"Just one more score, a big one. And all our troubles disappear, and us with them,” Dutch says, a popular refrain. 

"You know how I feel about big scores. And there are no big scores around here, none worth the risk,” Hosea says. They’ve already been in Blackwater for too long, and they both know too well that any big job would damn them. But Dutch is thinking, sitting on his cot, one foot resting on the crate Hosea sits on opposite him.

"There's a bank,” Dutch says. Hosea sighs.

"Sure. A city bank. Those are different from what we've been robbing, and even more so now."

"We can plan it - "

"Dutch, when I let you resort to robbing a city bank then you'll know I've given up. You know how it goes, you've read the papers. That’s the last refuge of a desperate man, and we ain’t desperate.”

Dutch sighs. 

"This place ain't _that_ civilized yet." 

"We might as well shoot ourselves here and now if we're gonna try and rob a bank in _Blackwater."_

“Fine. You’re right. I’ll think of something else.”

“Or we could just go now. We’ve got enough, Dutch, we can make do.”

“No, Hosea, not yet.”

“Why not?” 

“Because I have to make certain of things. It don’t hurt to have some…some cushion. We gotta do better.” 

“Dutch,” Hosea says, and watches Dutch lower his chin, annoyed. “We’ll always need money. Luckily that’s one thing we’re good at. But no matter how much money we have or don't, we ain’t gonna be halfway safe until we have someplace to lay low.”

“We’ll get there.”

“So you keep saying. What are you so scared of?” Hosea asks. He knows the answer, though he foolishly wonders if Dutch will ever say it.

“I ain’t scared, I just…I ain’t done this before,” Dutch says. Close enough, Hosea thinks. 

“Settled down, you mean? You’re not doing it alone.” 

Dutch looks at Hosea, a long and nervous gaze. Hosea waits for him to say something, sees something trying to work its way out from his lips. 

“Not yet,” Dutch finally says, looking away from Hosea to stare at the tent canvas. 

“I can’t help being old and sick, Dutch,” Hosea says quietly. Dutch sighs.

“I know. That’s the problem,” Dutch says. 

“Do me a favor, Dutch. Don’t bury me before I’m dead. I’ll be here a while yet.”

Dutch lets out a long breath and hangs his head. Hosea lifts himself from the crate to sit next to him on the cot, shoulder to shoulder. Dutch leans into him, heavy and warm.

+++

Dutch spends more time on his own - which is to say, often with Molly or Hosea, but also truly by himself. Hosea misses him at the fire, misses Dutch being the one to nag the others into working, misses the petty arguments that they haven’t had in so long. 

Hosea makes his rounds through camp each day, telling everyone to work or rest, listening to their gripes. It's always been what he's best at - collecting complaints, pushing Dutch in the right directions accordingly. It pains him to fall so short now, with Dutch hardly able to listen, distracted by his nerves. He makes notes to himself - the girls think Miss Grimshaw is being unfairly demanding and they’re sick of some of the men, and Mac and Davey have been hearing rumors about bounty hunters, and John is still avoiding Abigail and Jack and fighting with Arthur at every turn. He’ll bring it all up to Dutch later, and if Dutch doesn’t do something, Hosea will come up with something himself.

The day sets into motion, as always, and Hosea finds Dutch sitting against a tree, book in hand, staring into the distance.

"Something on your mind?" Hosea asks, and Dutch startles. Hosea hands him a cup of coffee. 

"Always," Dutch says. 

"Worth sharing?" 

Dutch sips his coffee, long and slow. Hosea lowers himself to a crouch, his knees protesting. Dutch looks him over, his mouth drawn into a frown. He lets out a shaky sigh. 

"I...hate that I can't stop it all from catching up to us," Dutch says. Hosea holds his eyes and plants a hand on his knee, balancing Dutch as much as himself

“There’s nobody that could. It’s the way of things," Hosea says. 

"There ain't no way we can be safe, Hosea. Something's always gonna catch up to us." 

“Sure. But we’ll make it through," Hosea says. Dutch sighs again. There was a time that Hosea found some odd comfort in the chinks in Dutch’s confident armor, when the act of the ever-capable man fell away and he could humble himself. It quietly frightens him now, a low rumble like an earthquake in the back of his mind. 

+++

A person with less respect for scavengers would compare Micah to one, Hosea thinks, watching Micah hang over Dutch’s shoulder. He prowls around camp like he’s looking for some kind of rancid morsel. Hosea hates it almost as much as the way Micah looks at Arthur like something he wants to skin. Hosea doesn’t remember how Micah came to run with them, how he had made himself so comfortable - but Micah isn’t a man who needs much comfort, after all. 

Hosea wishes Micah were more formidable, rather than simply unpleasant. It would be easier to send him on his way.

The unmistakable sound of Mac and Davey winding up comes from the far side of camp. Hosea looks to Arthur, who sighs and nods as he gets up and starts strutting across camp, ready to break up a fight. Hosea follows him, finds him holding Mac’s arm in one hand and Davey’s in the other. 

“Not in camp, fellas, save it for later,” Arthur says, his eyes hard and glaring at Micah, who looks like a cat satisfied with having narrowly dodged a broomstick. He offers a wave to Hosea as he slinks off back into camp. 

“What’s going on, boys?” Hosea asks. 

“That bastard can’t keep away from the women for a minute,” Mac snaps. 

“Oughta let someone kill him. If one of us doesn’t then somebody else will, it don’t make a difference worth a damn who does it,” Davey says. Arthur nods.

“I know,” Hosea sighs. 

It happens once a week, at the very least. Micah starts hassling one of the girls, if not all of them, and someone - usually Mac and Davey, because they always fight together, or sometimes Arthur or John - will go after him for it, and Hosea has to break it up, as much as he may hate to do it. He regrets how much he thinks he would enjoy seeing Micah finally beaten to the point of running off. 

“He’s been all over Jenny lately. She’s lucky she can fight,” Arthur says. Hosea bites his lips together. Jenny is far younger than the other girls, and Hosea holds a soft spot for her, given her playful, feisty streak and Lenny’s fondness for her.

“Still probably best we don’t get to fighting,” Hosea says. Arthur grinds his teeth.

“Someone needs to put a hole in his skull,” Davey says. 

“We’ll get there when we get there,” Hosea sighs. Arthur gives him a sad look as Mac and Davey walk away, still bristling. 

Hosea tries to tell Dutch - time and time again - that Micah has no place in the camp. Hosea sees enough to know that Micah cannot behave, imagines Dutch overhears just as much, though if he listens is another question. 

+++

“Hey, Hosea,” Lenny calls, jogging over to him where he sits on the edge of his bedroll. “I got a question.”

“Alright,” Hosea says, looking up from his whittling.

“Have you got a book I can borrow? I’ve read all mine. I’ll trade you.”

“Sure, sure,” Hosea says, surprised at the mildness of the request. He leans over to the crate of books he keeps next to him.

“Thanks. I’ve been reading with Sean and Jenny. Well, _to_ Sean, and with Jenny. She learns fast. Won’t even need me soon.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” Hosea says. Jenny and Lenny have been smitten with each other since Lenny fell into camp, and Sean has obliviously stayed hanging on Lenny’s shoulder, though neither of them seem to mind.

Hosea digs a couple books out of a crate and offers them up to Lenny without looking at them. Lenny looks them both over thoughtfully. Lenny is bookish under all his easy charm, and Hosea had kept him at an arm’s length for some time, thinking that Lenny was perhaps too good for their life and would leave once the going no longer suited him. But Lenny has stayed for months now, and eased his way into Hosea’s good graces with natural expertise, and Hosea is embarrassed to think back on his wariness.

“Oh, this one looks good. Thanks, Hosea. I’ll get it back to you soon,” Lenny says, waving one book in the air and handing the other two back to Hosea. 

“That one was actually Dutch’s, I think. Only because I remember being bored by it when I read it.”

Lenny chuckles about it, fans the pages. 

“You two have a respectable library between you,” Lenny says. 

“I suppose we do.”

“I always wanted a library of my own. I think I could be happy as long as I’ve got some books and a place to put them and somebody to share it with. But those rich folks, you know? With the big rooms just for their libraries, all that leather binding…I don’t like what else they do, but they’re onto something with that, I think.”

“There’s time for you yet, Lenny. Don’t give up on it so soon,” Hosea says. Lenny could easily get out of the life if he wanted - he has the brains and the heart for it, and he’s young. His face has yet to grace a bounty poster. Hosea reminds him of it often, though it flusters Lenny every time.

“I’ll get this back to you when I finish,” Lenny holds up the book. Hosea waves a hand in the air to dismiss the concern. 

“Enjoy it. Don’t let Dutch see you reading it, he’s got a lot to say about it,” Hosea says. Lenny laughs and nods knowingly as he turns away, calling his thanks over his shoulder. 

+++

Dutch proudly calls Hosea and the boys over to him while the rest of the gang eats around the fire. He pitches some too-elaborate plan to their skeptical faces - something about a ferry, one with hardly enough guards for the incomprehensible sum of money it will be carrying. Hosea sighs.

“A ferry? Dutch, I’d almost rather we rob the bank.”

“It’s just one job, Hosea."

"One risky job in a town we've already been in for far longer than is wise."

"When did you become so cynical?" 

“It ain’t a good idea, Dutch,” Hosea says. Dutch drops his head into his hands. Even for Dutch, it’s too ambitious and too risky. Hosea imagines that Dutch knows. If he came up with it on his own he would be more inclined to listen, but Hosea has heard Micah planting the seeds in Dutch’s ear for the last week.

“Then don’t come on the job. You’re too sick, anyway."

“It ain’t about _me_ , Dutch. There are other people on this job, too. There’s too much risk.

“We’ll be fine. We always are. If you and Arthur are both so doubtful about it then you don’t have to help. You two wrap up whatever business you’re doing, then meet us out a ways after we take care of the ferry. I got John, and the others, and that’s all we need. You go deal with your _real estate_ and the rest of us will do the dirty work. You’re in no shape to be working, anyway.”

“That _real estate_ alone would get us enough money to get out of here, and it would risk a lot less."

“What’s the harm in a little more?” Dutch asks.

"It just don’t feel right, Dutch,” Hosea says. Arthur nods. John says nothing, clearly afraid of any reaction to whatever he might be thinking. Hosea wishes he would share it.

"You two..." Dutch sighs, shaking his head. Hosea waits. “Micah and I have scouted this out _well._ It’s gonna be just fine. We’ll get enough money to get outta here, and then we’ll be gone, and leave all this behind us.”

“Sure,” Hosea says. 

"Because Micah is one we can trust, right, Dutch?” Arthur sighs. “He seems about as greedy as you are desperate.”

“You learn that from him?” Dutch nods to Hosea, and Hosea sighs as Arthur rolls his eyes. “Micah knows how to survive."

“Exactly, Dutch,” Arthur says. Hosea nods, and again John stays silent, staring at the ground between them all. 

“We’ll talk about this later. We have a week, boys, and we have a plan,” Dutch nods decidedly and turns to go.

Hosea shakes his head. John turns, nearly jogging as he goes. Arthur claps Hosea on the shoulder. 

“It ain’t gonna be pretty,” Arthur says. “Not like Dutch says it will."

“At least we’ll be done. If we survive, that is.” 

“Don’t talk like that, Hosea,” Arthur sighs, and he’s right.

+++

The days go by, each one marked by some new argument about the ferry. Hosea feels like the death that approaches him is coming too quickly and not soon enough all at once. His cough starts up again, a bark in his chest, and Dutch worries after him cautiously, as if Hosea might shoo him away at any moment. But Hosea doesn’t, as much as he wants to. It’s nice to know that Dutch still worries, though Dutch’s worry all too quickly turns to panic, and he starts talking about jobs and scores and the ferry again, asking endless questions about Hosea’s real estate plans.

The money won’t help, Hosea wants to tell him. It won’t fix Hosea’s tired body or his weary lungs. Dutch would never understand that to accept fate is different from surrendering, that death is not the enemy though it chases them across the country all the same. So instead Hosea sits in Dutch’s concerned silence, or amid his anxious ramblings, and longs for the future that they only seem to be leaving behind. 

+++

Hosea and Arthur are leaving the Blackwater lumberyard as a ruckus erupts. A few policemen ride quickly past them, and the distinct sounds of gunfire echo across the small town from the docks. 

“Shit,” Arthur breathes, bristling. 

“That ain’t good,” Hosea says. “Come on. We better get back to camp, get everyone ready to go.” 

Arthur looks at him, face frozen with concern. Hosea shakes his head. 

“Arthur, we ain’t gonna be any help to them there. Let’s go,” Hosea mounts his horse and waits for Arthur to do the same. Arthur hesitates, then swings himself into his saddle. 

They ride out of town steadily, Hosea’s jaw aching. They spur their horses as they leave the outskirts of Blackwater, riding hard back to camp. Arthur rounds up the girls to pack their things while Hosea and Susan start hurriedly packing everything else. Hosea tells them he doesn’t know what happened, over and over, and when Dutch and the boys finally return - missing a few - he still doesn’t know what happened. He supposes he never will. 

Arthur and Charles load Davey’s bleeding, moaning form into the back of a wagon. Hosea doesn’t dare ask after Sean or Jenny or Mac. John is nursing a bleeding arm, and Hosea climbs into the back of a wagon with him to clean it as they lurch into motion. 

Hosea watches the camp disappear into the dust as he staunches the raw gouge in John’s shoulder. 

“Hosea,” John says softly. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. Hosea pauses. “Dutch killed a girl.” 

Hosea freezes, looking over John’s tense face. He nods, waits for John to say something else. He swallows hard, tips back his head and closes his eyes.

+++

Hosea hardly remembers the series of decisions that led them back into the mountains. The spring snow is too wet and too deep, and they’re foolish for trying. But as Dutch keeps saying, no one else will be foolish enough to follow them this way.

All Hosea really sees is the snow flying about in the lanternlight on the wagons. Dutch tells him to move to the back of one of the wagons where he’ll be warm, where his cough won’t act up so much, but the thought of taking his eyes off the semblance of a road through the snow sends his heart to pounding again. So he stays on the wagon seat with Dutch, their shoulders pressed together through their coats, too tired and afraid to try for any interrogation or argument. Instead, under the wind and snow, Dutch sighs each time Hosea coughs. 

Somewhere in the chaos of orders and weather, John had ridden out into the snow and not returned, insisting his shot arm was good enough to ride. Hosea can feel that something isn’t right and worries after him, keeps it to himself to keep from sending Dutch into a panic. In the silence between them, Hosea listens to his mind rattle between his worries - John, and Davey half dead in one of the wagons, and Sean and Mac nowhere to be found, and Dutch in all his strange behavior. Hosea wonders if Dutch will ever tell him about the girl he killed. 

They settle into an old mining town, and Hosea learns he can remove from his worries one Davey Callander - dead before they even stopped. He adds to his worries one Mrs. Adler - collected from a homestead ravaged by O’Driscolls - and Arthur and Javier, as they go out looking for John.

“They’ll be fine,” Dutch says, though it sounds like he’s reassuring himself. “They were brought up by the best, after all.” 

Arthur brings John back, John’s face ripped up by wolves and rocks. Arthur brims with annoyed concern over John’s state, and Hosea wishes he could sooth it. Instead he busies himself taking care of John’s wounds, cleaning them with Miss Grimshaw. 

“He’ll never let you rest from this, will he?” Susan says lightly, holding John’s head still as Hosea dabs at one of the long gashes across his cheek. It’s ugly enough to make Hosea’s joints hurt, but it won’t do any lasting harm. 

“I reckon not,” Hosea says. “Less he learns to finally take care of himself.”

“You two have spoiled him, Mister Matthews,” Susan says.

“That’s what you call this?” 

Susan sighs, smooths John’s hair as he winces. 

Hosea finds relief only in the relative privacy of the cabin. Molly is there, but she doesn’t bother Hosea, and Arthur bumbles in and out as is his custom. Micah, however, never shows his face, perhaps knowing better than to try.

+++

Hosea makes his way between the buildings, though he knows he shouldn’t, though Dutch had snapped at him to stop trying to kill himself. The wind sets him coughing, but he feels better moving around to check on John, to see if anyone has finally killed Micah yet. It’s better than listening to Dutch or trying to argue with him, the only things Hosea can do anymore.

Hosea opens the door to the cabin, brings a gust of wind and snow with him. He pauses to relish in the illusion of warmth created by four walls, though his breath still comes in clouds. At least it’s relief from the wind, he thinks, and coughs into his fist. Dutch turns in his seat at the fire to look at him, his eyes low and nervous. 

“You need to _rest,_ Hosea, and stop pacing around like this,” Dutch says. Hosea feels a flare in his chest.

“I was checking on John, in case you’d forgotten. And what I need, _Dutch_ , is far behind us now."

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dutch asks. Hosea hears Molly shift on the rickety cot in the next room. 

“It means we’re long past anything that anyone here _needs._ All we’re doing now is surviving.”

“What is it with you, Hosea?” Dutch asks. Hosea leans against the table. “Why are you wanting to give up and die so bad now?” 

Hosea laughs, and it comes out as a cough that burns high in his chest. 

“Why are you acting like I’m already dead?” Hosea asks, expecting to feel a regret that doesn’t come. Dutch’s eyes flicker and fall, his eyebrows twitching.

“Don’t you start saying that, Hosea."

“I’m trying to _keep_ us from dying, Dutch.” 

“And what do you think I’m doing?” Dutch asks, getting up from his chair. He stands before Hosea expectantly.

“I don’t know,” Hosea says. “What are you doing?”

“I’m doing the only thing I know how to do, Hosea. But I can’t do that without you. So don’t you start…whatever this is.”

Hosea watches Dutch’s face, the words welling up in his chest weighed down by some vague, heavy sorrow. Dutch finally turns away, satisfied somehow with Hosea’s silence. Hosea shakes his head and turns to go, feeling Dutch watch as he steps out the door and back into the cold. 

The wind bites at his cheeks and his knees ache from stepping through high, wet, snow. He follows a fresher set of footsteps than the others, makes his way to the ramshackle barn. He pushes the heavy, creaking door open enough to slip through, pulling it shut behind him. The barn is warmer than the cabin, heavy with the safe, familiar smell of horses. Arthur is sitting on an old crate, snow melting in droplets on his coat and hat. 

“Arthur,” Hosea says. He looks around the barn, his eyes still adjusting from the brightness of the snow. Charles is brushing down the horses, offers Hosea a small nod before returning to his work. 

“You okay?” Arthur asks. Hosea sits down next to him. 

“Yeah,” Hosea says. 

“Heard you and Dutch fighting,” Arthur says from the depths of his coat. Hosea sighs, opens his mouth to speak, then glances to Charles and looks back to Arthur. Arthur nods, shrugs his approval. 

“It’s nothing. Well, it’s the same as always."

“Weren’t always like this.”

“I know,” Hosea says. "

“You don’t have to keep doing this, you know,” Hosea says.

“Doing what?” 

“All this. With Dutch. You don’t have to do all he says, even he knows that.”

“Oh, I do,” Arthur says, punctuated by an incredulous laugh.

“What about you?”

“Well. It’s just my lot in life, I reckon. My punishment for trusting the crazy bastard." 

"Don't say that," Arthur says. "He weren't always crazy,” Arthur sees Hosea’s face and laughs, a sad and tired sound. "Okay, maybe he was crazy. But not like this." 

Hosea breathes a laugh and leans his head against the wall behind him. Arthur leans back with him, and Hosea accepts the silence.

+++

Hosea watches Dutch and the others ride out to go kick up another unnecessary fuss with Colm O’Driscoll. He waits for the sound of them to fade into the snow, listens to the melt dripping from the roofs in the sunlight. He realizes, finally having a still moment to think, that Dutch has lost his way, veered so far that Hosea wonders if Dutch can hear him calling.

Hosea goes inside, stifling a cough in the sudden sticky warmth of the crowded building. John lays at the end of the room, as if at an altar, some offering to some unknown god. John looks at Hosea, too tired to say anything, his face raw and swollen above the blankets. Hosea brushes his hair from his face, remembers the first time that John had let him move his hair from his eyes. It had been so Hosea could talk to him, sternly and about something that Hosea can hardly remember. It feels so long ago. Hosea sits down next to him and John closes his eyes. 

Dutch comes back with a map, and a plan, and a very tired Arthur hauling some panicked and terrified O’Driscoll boy with him. The O'Driscoll seems fine, and entirely uninvested in Colm and his feuds. Hosea thinks of letting him go, sending him on his way when no one is looking. The last thing they should be doing is going to war with Colm again, anyway. 

Hosea tries to talk Dutch down - robbing some industrial baron is the last thing they need, it would be better to let Colm’s boys do it and take the heat to slow them down. Dutch doesn’t give him time to argue, and Arthur looks between them as he follows after Dutch, looking afraid and confused. 

They’ll be out of the snow soon, at least, Hosea thinks. And then there will be some other milestone to reach, and Hosea imagines that he’ll be dead before they ever stop running and fighting.

+++

The descent from the mountains feels more hopeful than Hosea had expected. He finds himself demoted to manning a wagon with Arthur and Charles, who is ever more often at Arthur’s side. The hope and relief almost cloud over the dread looming in all directions. 

The dark clouds of the law, of the encroaching world, become almost negligible. Save for Dutch’s apprehensions, it almost feels like the old days. He could almost forget that the law is on their tail, that time is catching up to all of them in the worst ways. So Hosea bides his time the way he always would have - quietly making money in Valentine, running errands and pulling jobs with Arthur. But he worries after Sean and Mac - whatever may be left of them. He hopes there’s something. 

Lenny returns without Micah, to Hosea’s great relief. He comes around to check on Hosea too often, but Hosea suspects that it’s more for Lenny’s sake than Hosea’s. He welcomes it anyway, trades books with him, offers him all the reassurances that Lenny seeks - wondering if Lenny knows that what Hosea tells him is also what Hosea needs to hear. They try to talk about Jenny, though neither of them can get very far without choking, and so they stop trying.

Arthur jokes that he intends to leave Micah in Strawberry for as long as he possibly can before Dutch comes after him for it once and for all. Hosea encourages it, quietly and to his own amusement. Arthur stays away from camp as if he can’t stand being there, and Hosea envies the privilege. When Arthur comes back, Hosea hauls him out to hunt a bear, to get away more than anything else. 

John’s face is still raw and bleeding and he stiffly paces around camp unable to do much more than complain and pick arguments with Arthur. Hosea wrangles him just often enough to keep the gashes clean and covered in salves. John grumbles about it, insists he can do it himself - though Hosea has never seen him demonstrate such a thing. Hosea makes a fuss about it, though he doesn’t mind. It reminds him of easier times, of John getting into poison ivy when sent to collect wood, of Arthur blistering with sunburn, Hosea tending to them contentedly and pestering them to take care of themselves while Dutch clucked his loving taunts at all of them, entirely unhelpful. 

Each time Hosea walks past the fire he hears John complaining about something new, most often about Abigail. Hosea scolds him for it, privately at the edges of camp. John rolls his eyes, complains about Arthur, about how pretty soon not even Dutch will have his back. 

“You know just who’s got your back when it counts,” Hosea tells him, and that’s as far as he takes it.

The air is still cool, though summer is creeping into the air. Hosea can tell his hacking and wheezing is worrying everyone, he asks them not to fret when he sees it in their eyes, staring at him as he recovers from a coughing fit. It doesn’t worry him, it never has. His health has improved since leaving the dust of Blackwater and the frigidity of Colter - his chest doesn’t burn quite so much as it did, but to the others it all seems the same. He almost misses Dutch’s constant interrogations about his health - something he hasn’t had to fend off since he got sick. 

Dutch keeps to himself, for once. He resigns himself to his tent with Molly, and Hosea comes to check on him, to pester him, to remind him of their priorities. Dutch shrugs him off, if he doesn’t get riled, though sometimes he seems to remember himself and the _old Dutch_ shines through. Hosea resents that the distinction can be made at all. 

+++

“I should’ve listened to you,” Dutch admits one day as the haze of the morning begins to recede. Hosea is sitting on a crate in Dutch’s tent. Molly was away from Dutch for a rare moment, and Hosea had come to sit. 

“Yeah,” Hosea says simply, meeting Dutch’s eyes. 

“I really did mess up.”

“Ain’t the first time.”

“You don’t have to remind me.”

“I do. Else you'd never learn. But we’ll get through,” Hosea says. Dutch holds his eyes for a moment and then hangs his head, saying nothing.

“You reckon they still trust me?”

“They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t,” Hosea says. 

“Don’t give up on me just yet, Hosea,” Dutch says to the ground. It surprises Hosea to hear him say it so simply. Dutch’s fears are rarely so close to the surface. 

“I ain’t planning on it,” Hosea says. He watches Dutch’s shoulders deflate, unsure if his lack of response is a blessing or a curse.

+++

Sean’s return to camp is - as Hosea hates to admit he expected - what finally seems to put things right. Though he returns without Mac, Sean’s bombastic arrival brings the first sense of normality in a long time - they drink, they dance, they laugh and sing and things feel the way they always have, save for a few missing faces. Hosea tries not to think about who isn’t there.

Hosea sits at the table alone, having worn out his voice and tired lungs, the cooler night air starting to sting with every breath. He watches Arthur dance reluctantly with Mary-Beth, Kieran looking on frozen in some thoughtfulness. Dutch dances with Molly, makes her laugh and blush, and Hosea is happy to see it. 

Dutch finds him, joins him, looks like himself as he opens his heart to Hosea again, dusts off that odd part of their hearts that they share. He puts his hand over Hosea’s, warm and dry and welcome in the cold, familiar in its heaviness. Hosea feels a glimmer of guilt for how at ease he feels - there will be time for ease later, he thinks, but not now. Dutch sounds victorious as he recounts the winding path they’ve taken, though Hosea wonders if Dutch hears the resignation in his own voice - as if something is surely ending. 

Hosea wishes only that they could reminisce somewhere that they can stay put.

“We did it, Hosea,” Dutch repeats as he gets up. Hosea wishes he could say anything, but he can hardly think of something so kind. Dutch rejoins the party. Hosea stays at the table, looking at nothing, feeling mournful in some unidentifiable way. 

Arthur interrupts him, claps him on the back, calls him an old man in that gentle tone of his. Hosea nods his thanks and retires to his bedroll, listening to the party wind down. He thinks of Dutch - somehow miles away while they lie only yards apart, and then tries to think of anything else.

+++

The camp is quiet except for the sounds of a few low voices at the fire. It should put Hosea to sleep, but his joints ache. They get worse each night, he thinks, ever since he got sick. 

Hosea gets up from his bedroll and stiffly makes his way over to where the fire is crackling, the flickering forms of Javier and Charles sitting before it and talking in quiet tones. They hush as Hosea approaches.

“Hey, fellas,” he says. He crouches down close to the fire to warm himself. He’s tired of being cold, of the ache it leaves in his bones and the way it burns in his chest. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Are you okay?” Charles asks. Hosea sighs, settles on the ground leaning against the log Charles is sitting on.

“Yeah, yeah. Still alive and all.”

Charles looks like he doubts it. Javier lights a cigarette. Hosea stifles a cough in his elbow. The night is warmer than most, but still too cold for comfort. They sit without talking, listening to the fire crackling and the nightbirds calling. A whippoorwill sounds its frantic call somewhere closeby, sounding as if it's about to join them at the fire. 

The bird pauses and Javier speaks suddenly, casually. 

"A man once told me that if you call back to a nightjar and it doesn't answer, then you're bound to die soon," he says. Charles sighs. 

“I've heard that too. I don't buy it. Have you ever seen one?" 

"No."

“They’re small. You could step on one, they hide so well. Hardly an omen of death. Whistling at night, though, that’s bad luck," Charles says. Javier shrugs. The conversation runs through Hosea’s heart like warm water, the kind of simple fireside conversation that has been so scarce.

“The man also said if they call back to you then you'll have a long life," Javier says. He offers his cigarette to Charles, who declines with a shake of his head. 

The bird calls again, five, six, seven times and stops, an unseen voice in their conversation. Hosea licks his lips and whistles its trill back into the darkness. Javier purses his lips and waits wide-eyed, as if it will help him listen. The bird doesn’t call, and Javier shakes his head, leans forward to pass Hosea his cigarette as a consolation. Hosea waves it off. 

“Not a surprise to me,” Hosea says. Charles sighs and bites the inside of his cheek. 

The whippoorwill finally calls again, its trilling no further away. It halts again, and Charles whistles its call back, as true to the bird’s song as a man’s call can be. The bird calls back, somehow clearer and closer than before. Javier gives an impressed breath of a laugh and Charles sighs, leans forward holding out a hand to Javier. Javier scoffs quietly and surrenders his cigarette to Charles. Hosea nods in understanding, and Javier shakes his head. 

+++

On a rare quiet morning, with Miss Grimshaw gone off to collect herself in town, Tilly comes to sit with Hosea, taking a break from her sewing and excursions into town, relishing in the peace brought on by Susan’s absence. They talk lightly about the camp, and the weather, and how Hosea is doing, and then fall silent. 

“Tilly, have you seen Arthur?” Mary-Beth asks, coming to lean against the table. Tilly chuckles to herself as she lays out the dominoes on the table. Hosea sets his newspaper aside and starts pulling tiles toward himself.

“No,” Tilly says. Mary-Beth turns to Hosea.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“I don’t,” Hosea says.

“He's been seeing that Mary again,” Tilly clucks. Hosea looks up at her and she shrugs. “I told him he shouldn’t. Miss Grimshaw did, too. But you know how he is, as stubborn as he is good.”

Hosea thinks for a moment that he should remind Arthur of his good sense, but resigns. He can hardly blame Arthur for having been brought up by men who love foolishly. 

+++

The afternoon is warm, the trees glowing with their new leaves in the sunlight. Hosea sits at the edge of the overlook, savoring the sun on his face. He hears Jack’s hurried footsteps coming up behind him, and he opens his eyes. 

“Hosea!” Jack grins, and Hosea straightens up to let Jack crawl onto his lap. He’ll be too big for it soon, Hosea thinks, swimming in pride and sadness. 

“What adventures has our dear boy had now?” Hosea asks him. 

“Arthur took me fishing! I didn’t catch anything, but he let me play in the flowers. Arthur caught some fish. He said they were small." 

“What color were the flowers?” Hosea asks. 

“They were red. I was going to pick more,” Jack gasps for air, “but Arthur said we had to come back ‘cause there was bad men at the river. I gave the flowers to Mama, she can show you if you ask her.”

“I may just do that,” Hosea says. Jack looks over his shoulder and Hosea hears Arthur’s steady paces approaching. Arthur drops his hat onto Jack’s head and shoos him away, and Hosea stands up. “Something wrong?”

“Pinkertons,” Arthur spits. “Offered me my freedom should I turn Dutch in.”

“You should have,” Hosea says. Arthur stares at him for a moment, dismisses the comment with a blink.

“Dutch said that too. We gotta get outta here, Hosea, and quick.”

“I know.”

“You think we really will? With Dutch the way he is? He ain’t well, Hosea. I know you heard about Blackwater same as me.”

“I don’t know, Arthur. We’ll just…we ain’t got many choices right now.” 

Arthur shrugs his shoulders and flexes his hands. Hosea nods, pats him on the shoulder as he walks off. Hosea sits back down on the boulder, looking out over the valley again. 

+++

Hosea tries to return to teaching Jack to read. They had only just started in Blackwater, just before they had been uprooted. Jack hates it, squirms around and whines about it, but he does try. His mother’s son, Hosea thinks. Jack is still easier to teach than John was. 

Jack finishes a lesson and runs off to see what Arthur is doing as if Hosea might go back on his word and make him read more. Abigail takes his place sitting next to Hosea. 

“I can still help you, you know,” Hosea says. Somewhere in the upheaval of Jack’s birth and John’s leaving, Hosea and Abigail had abandoned their reading lessons and never returned.

“No, it’s okay, Hosea. I can learn later. Jack is…it’s more important that he learn,” Abigail cracks her knuckles one by one in her lap.

“I got nothing better to do, it would be a pleasure.”

“No, I…frankly, I’m a bit discouraged.”

“I understand. There will be other chances,” Hosea says, and chokes down the feeling that he’s lying. He reaches out and squeezes her hands to still them. 

“You really never had children of your own?” Abigail asks. Hosea shakes his head. “You take to Jack like you been doing this your whole life.”

“Well, John wasn’t so different from a four-year old,” Hosea says. Abigail laughs and leans into Hosea’s shoulder. She hasn’t laughed about John in some time. Hosea wonders if she knows. 

+++

Hosea is reading near the cliff when he hears the men ride in, sees Dutch coming over to him directly, posturing as if looking for someone to blame. Hosea sets his book facedown on his knee. 

“What’s the trouble?” Hosea asks. 

“Pinkertons, Leviticus Cornwall, what isn’t the trouble? We just ran into Mister Cornwall in town. Nobody’s hurt, before you start your fussing. Not bad, at least. We need to get a move on.”

Hosea watches Dutch, mulling over the flurry of what Dutch just dropped into his lap so suddenly. 

“We needed to get a move on last week.”

“Hosea - "

“It was only a matter of time,” Hosea stands up.

“Oh, don’t sound so pleased with yourself,” Dutch snaps. It catches Hosea like a gust of icy wind. He looks at Dutch’s face, his dark eyes still and focused. There was a time that Dutch would have come to Hosea for his thoughts, for help in facing this. Hosea realizes, watching Dutch’s face, that those days are further behind them than he thought. 

“You think this pleases me? To have our lives - _their_ lives - on the line like this?” 

“I need you to trust me,” Dutch says. “If you don’t, no one does.” 

“I trust you, Dutch. But you’re playing a dangerous game.”

“And no one does that better than us, Hosea,” Dutch says, a sneer threatening his voice. “Let’s get a move on. I’d like to be ready by the time Arthur comes back. I sent him and Charles to find us a new camp” 

Hosea watches Dutch return to his tent and stare blankly at this things until Molly approaches him, presenting him with some new source of frustration. Hosea sighs, closing his book, and calls for Miss Grimshaw to tell her the plans.

It takes through to morning, but the wagons are loaded. Dutch invites Hosea to sit with him - so Hosea can drive it, as always, Hosea already knows - and Hosea accepts. Dutch claps him on the back.

As the wagons creak into motion, Hosea looks back over his shoulder at the empty campsite, the view of the valley, and resists a shudder trying to run up his back. He hates to feel so doomed over it.

+++

They settle into a clearing on a lake in Lemoyne, further south than any of them would care to be. Arthur tells Hosea with some disgust that he had to kill a few men - bad men, he clarifies - to clear out the spot. Hosea wishes he didn't know. 

Lemoyne’s humidity keeps the whole state moving slow, like heavy scar tissue in a joint.

“No wonder the folks down here’s so ornery, I would be too with all this heat,” Sean chirps, loudly enough to be begging for an audience as he sits down at the fire. “Not even noon and my ass is lathering like a horse in - "

The choir of exhaustion with Sean’s commentary rises and falls.

John sits down next to Hosea on the log at the fire. 

“You seen Arthur?” John asks. Hosea looks to Arthur’s empty tent and to Dutch’s closed one. He scans the camp, sees no sign of Arthur except his horse. 

“No.”

John sighs, returns to his bread and coffee.

For the first time since Hosea was a boy, he feels far from home.

+++

Hosea busies himself looking for any easy targets in Rhodes, working his way around some rumors of hidden treasures. Hosea doesn’t want to deal with plantation fortunes, with the state's dirty money, but he has little choice in the matter. There are too many necks on the line for him to pick and choose how he swindles. 

Jack - perhaps bored enough now - stills himself enough to read with Hosea, though they often forget the book in favor of Jack’s meandering questions - how birds can fly, how caterpillars know to eat leaves, why the dog cries and runs in his sleep, when everyone will stop fighting and running and act like normal again. Hosea has most of the answers, and can make them up easily enough when he doesn’t. 

When not rambling about the war and his father, Dutch is arguing with Molly, or talking about leaving again. This is their last stop - just like Horseshoe, just like Blackwater - before they finally make their way to some hidden paradise, as if there’s much of it left. It’s not the original plan, hasn’t been for something like a year now. 

They’ll wind up _somewhere,_ of that much Hosea is certain. They can’t run forever. He only frets about where that somewhere may be, now that the country is getting smaller and pickings are running slim. 

+++

Dutch insists on going fishing with Arthur and Hosea, and Hosea is happy to indulge them. It feels like it did so long ago, Arthur groaning under their jests and prods, poking fun back at them. They return home earlier than any of them would have liked, but Hosea feels the warmth of it lingering in his heart like the rocking of the boat in his legs long after they arrive.

Hosea finds Dutch standing at the lake by their stolen fishing boat, still watching the sun lowering over the trees on the other side of the water. Hosea comes to stand next to him, crosses his arms, watches the water bugs skim across the water. 

“Pearson was glad for the fish,” Hosea says. “Told him Arthur caught most of them, thought it might get at least one person off his back for once.”

Dutch hums, huffs a laugh, doesn’t seem to notice Hosea watching his face, or maybe after all this time he no longer cares. His eyes are far away, his mouth set into some mournful half-smile. When he had suggested that they go fishing together, that they even take Arthur, Hosea had known a storm was coming. Dutch’s sentimentality too often comes at a price.

"You ever miss the way things were?" Dutch asks. Hosea holds his breath, decides for honesty, as if he had another option.

"Every day," Hosea says. Being honest with Dutch is all he knows, after all. 

"Yeah. Me too.” 

“I know,” Hosea says. Dutch turns to him.

“Do you think we’re doing okay?”

“Well…no. But I think we could be, if we make the right plans. I think things could be good again yet."

“I’m trying, Hosea. I can feel the potential in this place, can’t you? We’re close. You’ll find us the money like you do, I’ll make the plan, and we’ll get back up north or…something, and disappear.”

"Sure."

“Then you can die like you want to so badly,” Dutch says, just enough of a laugh in his voice that Hosea doesn’t feel that too-familiar flare in his chest. Hosea scoffs.

“Sounds nice,” Hosea says. Dutch sways to bump his shoulder into Hosea’s like a question. Hosea hesitates, sees the worry blooming in Dutch’s posture in the corner of his eye, and elbows him in the familiar muscle of his arm, a motion that feels precious and antiquated and not at all like something that should be done in such times. 

+++

Dutch is proud to send Hosea to deal with the wagon of moonshine he had so kindly obtained. Hosea looks around camp, spots John hacking sloppily away at a stick in some excuse for whittling, and calls him to join him. John shrugs, chucks the stick away, and follows Hosea wordlessly.

“Don’t go far, Hosea! I need him!” Dutch calls after them.

“You can have him later. I need his help with these horses.” 

Dutch shouts something back that Hosea doesn’t hear, but he waves over his shoulder anyway.

“Thank God,” John says as they leave camp, glancing over his shoulder as he takes one horse’s lead from Hosea. “He wants me off stealing some Braithwaite horses, or something.”

“Are you avoiding your duties, Mister Marston?” Hosea asks sternly. John elbows him lightly.

“I’m just avoiding Dutch. There’s a difference.” 

“Sure,” Hosea says. 

They walk in silence to the wagon, leading the horses carefully through the brush. They hitch the horses and wagon and check the bed of the wagon. John whistles softly.

“That’s an awful lot of shine,” John says.

“Sure is. Enough that it’s gonna be hard to get rid of all at once, but I’ll make it work.”

“You always do.”

John lifts himself up to sit on the back of the wagon. He picks at his fingernails while Hosea watches the trees, listening to the birds chattering at each other. 

John had always been begrudging with his cooperation when Hosea took him to do anything, making no secret of his stronger desire to follow the action and go with Dutch or Arthur. All the more reason, Dutch had always said, for John to get a taste of Hosea’s work. As John got older he was roped into Dutch’s jobs more often, an essential element in Dutch’s most ambitious plans. Hosea can’t remember the last time he took John out to do something, just the two of them, and he regrets it heavily in the pit of his stomach.

“I won’t beg you to take me with you, but…” John starts, as if Hosea had spoken his thoughts aloud.

“No no, the last thing I need is Dutch thinking I’m interfering with his plans.”

John rolls his eyes.

“Why do you give him the time of day anymore, Hosea?” John asks. Hosea blinks slowly and leans up against the wagon. 

“I don’t have much of a choice. We can’t all go running off on folks when we please,” Hosea says. John grimaces and shakes his head.

“You could leave.”

“John, I don’t have anything else. Ain't no way for me to make my way in this world anymore, not honestly, at least. And I’m too old to go it alone, and I’d rather not die alone. Dutch is…well, he’s all I’ve got.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John says, lighting a cigarette, “but you know…"

“You and Abigail could take the boy and leave, but you don’t,” Hosea says. John flinches. 

“I ain’t got no idea how to do that,” John says softly. “Wouldn’t be good for none of them, either. Dutch’d go crazy."

“Aha, not so easy, is it?” Hosea says. “But it ain’t too late for you to get an idea.”

“I guess,” John says, offering Hosea the cigarette. He looks at it, already feeling the ache and cough it would cause him if he took it. But he’s aching anyway, and for God knows how much longer, so he takes it from John’s weathered hand. John is looking at him with a look of confusion and desperation that Hosea hasn’t seen in years. 

“Make a plan, John. You and Abigail,” Hosea says, resisting a cough as he hands the cigarette back to John.

“You’re sounding as crazy as he is.”

“You know I’m not. It’s time to start thinking. Even you know that.” 

“I know,” John says quietly. 

Arthur’s footsteps start approaching them through the brush, distinct in being recklessly loud as always. John and Hosea share a snorted laugh. 

“I brought you up, John Marston, more or less. I know just what I taught you and what you can do. And it’s more than you think.”

“Alright, I got it, old man,” John says, but he offers a smile. Hosea punches him lightly on the shoulder. Arthur calls out to them from where he emerges into the small clearing. 

“Just tell Dutch I kept you,” Hosea winks. "And good luck."

“Thanks, Hosea,” John says. “For, well. You know."

“Sure. My pleasure as always, John.”

+++

Arthur and Hosea attempt to dispose of their moonshine surplus in a Rhodes saloon, Hosea taking too much joy in dragging Arthur along in character. It ends, as too many things do, in gunfire, and the escape unscathed. Hosea reclines in the wagon seat, laughing and sore and winded. Arthur shakes his head, but he laughs under his hat.

“That’s enough gunfights for me now, I reckon,” Hosea says. 

“You been saying that for years, old man,” Arthur tells him.

“I mean it this time.”

“I’m sure you do."

Arthur starts hanging around camp more, pacing circles that he makes purposeful by asking everyone how they’re doing, if they need help with things - until he sees Dutch emerge from his tent, and then he scatters. Dutch must notice it, he’s too sensitive to Arthur to be unbothered by his strategic absences.

Dutch is ever more absent, engrossed in his own thoughts when not out on the town playing deputy. Hosea thinks getting involved with the local law is ridiculous, makes no secret of it, but he lets it be. There’s no use talking Dutch down from it. 

The Braithwaite lead about a treasure of gold had been promising, more promising than Dutch’s ventures in law enforcement and moonshining, but Hosea doubts it more with each day. But it’s work, and it’s entertaining enough even if Catherine Braithwaite is hardly fun to impress. She’s a bitter woman, and boring for it. Hosea wonders if she somehow knows he hates cribbage, for how often she has him play it. 

Sean hates her entirely and makes no secret of it, and he spends every moment out of her earshot mocking her. Sean grins when Hosea joins him, laughs so hard he nearly falls out of his saddle. 

The kid is alright, Hosea thinks. He can make himself laugh, and he knows how to live his life for himself. He’ll die as he lives, most likely - Hosea can’t imagine Sean aspiring to being much more than a high-spirited, bumbling outlaw, but it suits him. Still, Hosea wishes that Sean would carve out some better fate for himself, where he isn’t careening quite so quickly into some fiery unknown with the rest of them, grateful as he may be for Sean’s comical laughter.

+++

“Hosea, have you got a moment?” 

Hosea looks up from the newspaper wilting in his hands with the humidity. Molly is standing over him, biting her lips together apprehensively. Hosea tips forward in his chair, dropping all four legs of it on the ground. 

“What’s going on?” Hosea asks.

“It’s Dutch, I - “ her voice wavers, “I don’t know what to do.” 

Hosea sighs, gestures for her to sit down. Molly has always been nervous around him, but strangely trusting, for whatever reason. It puzzles Hosea as much as it brings him some strange, uncertain peace. She sits on the edge of her seat, folding her hands on the table. 

“You don’t know what to do about what?” Hosea asks.

“I’m not dumb. Everyone seems to think I’m dumb, but I’m not, and I’m not blind either. I don’t care about you, or if he fucks some other girl, I don’t mind, not really. What I do mind is him _hating me_."

Hosea knows better than to make some insistence that Dutch does not, in fact, hate Molly. He hears their arguments - it's impossible not to - and he sees Dutch's coolness and forgetfulness toward her, clear enough that it almost hurts to witness. He thinks of all the arguments he’s picked with Dutch only to be sure that Dutch hasn’t forgotten him, the relief that comes with receiving Dutch’s anger. 

Dutch's apathy is worse than his vindication. Even Hosea would rather be Dutch’s enemy than someone he pays no mind. 

Hosea has already seen Molly and Dutch play out - Dutch and Molly hardly different from Dutch and Susan, or Dutch and Annabelle, not really.

Molly’s heavy, hurting eyes and the restrained pout of her lips make something surge in Hosea’s chest, some flare of anger at Dutch for stringing her along the way he has. Molly may love him foolishly, but she does love him, just like Dutch wants. It isn’t something Hosea doesn’t understand. 

Hosea wants to tell her to leave, feels it biting at the back of this throat. He swallows it down.

“Give it time,” Hosea says, feeling like the worst kind of liar, and Molly regards him doubtfully, “he’ll come back around. When all’s said and done.”

“I’ve been waiting,” Molly says. Hosea sighs. “If he doesn’t want me here, no one does. And I haven't got anywhere to go." 

“I’m sorry, Molly,” Hosea says, and it’s all he can say. Her lip quivers as she turns away. 

+++

Micah returns - Arthur finally having been roped into collecting him - to no real fanfare. Arthur comes to tell Hosea that every time he has to go after Micah he ends up killing too many folks, and Hosea sees the fatigue in Arthur’s face as he tells him. Micah takes to lingering around Dutch’s tent whenever he’s in camp, which turns Hosea’s stomach though it’s far preferable to his lurking around the women or antagonizing Lenny and Charles.

Hosea overhears Micah trying to pitch a job to the poker table. Robbing a homestead, something about two fine women and a lot of money. Bill sounds skeptical, from what Hosea can hear, and Javier sounds disgusted. 

“Why should we trust your plans, Micah? You’re the reason we’re out here,” Javier says dismissively.

“Yeah,” Bill agrees. “I like the robbing, but not the running. I think I’d like to stay put for a while."

“Running comes with the territory, boys. We’re bank robbers,” Micah says, a line he uses often, as if it explains anything.

“No, Mister Bell. We’re not,” Hosea calls from where he sits at the other table. 

“Don’t recall asking you, old feller,” Micah calls back. 

Hosea could kill him, he thinks, and feel nothing over it. Dutch would be mad, surely, but Dutch has been mad before. He would understand once it was over, and things would pass. They always did. Dutch has killed plenty of folks, some more important than Micah, and Hosea hadn’t asked questions. Perhaps he’s finally earned his turn.

+++

Micah comes back into camp spinning something up about Colm O’Driscoll, with Bill and Pearson to back him up. Hosea doesn’t like the sound of it, knows better than to pray that anything from Micah will miraculously miss Dutch. 

When word about a parley with Colm finally finds Dutch in an absurd prophecy from Micah, Hosea can hear the sober doubt in Dutch’s voice. Dutch knows better than to expect reason from Colm, Hosea is sure of that much. He hears Dutch and Arthur dismiss Micah’s ideas, but he stays seated, reading his paper. His stomach sinks as he hears Dutch coming around to the idea, Micah’s voice twisting around like a snake. 

Hosea tries to tell Dutch it’s a trap, and realizes as he watches Dutch and Arthur and Micah ride out that he has put too much faith in Dutch’s judgment. He should, he supposes, be hopeful about Dutch’s confidence in the goodwill of another, one who he hates so severely. But it’s too late for that.

He waits in his annoyance and dread for Dutch to return - and when he does, it’s without Arthur.

Dutch doesn’t explain to Hosea what exactly happened to Arthur - Hosea isn’t sure if Dutch really knows in the first place. Hosea asks him to repeat himself, listens carefully though it still makes little sense, and swallows the urge to get up and walk away. It’s not the time for anything Hosea wants to say, so he sits back on the crate he’s perched on and puts his hands on his knees. 

“What are we going to do about it?” Hosea asks. He already knows the answer. 

“We have to go get him,” Dutch says, “Micah said - “

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. And to hell with what Micah says. That’s how you got us into this,” Hosea says, maybe too sharply, because Dutch’s eyes flicker with something Hosea wants to back away from. “This is all some kind of trap. Can’t you see that?"

“Then what? We can’t just leave him - "

“I don’t know, Dutch. But it’s a trap. Arthur can handle himself, at least we did right by him making sure of that. I’ll talk to Charles and Kieran,” Hosea says. “And you, just…think, Dutch.” 

Hosea sighs. He gets up and slips out of Dutch’s tent before Dutch can protest, before Hosea can say something he shouldn’t. 

Arthur’s horse carries him into camp, just as Hosea is about to tell Dutch they should send Charles to scout things out. He’s an unbelievable mess in a filthy union suit, mumbling incoherently in beaten exhaustion. Dutch can’t seem to look at him, calling Susan to sit with Arthur and then disappearing to his own tent, shooing Molly away. 

In a flurry of human motion, Arthur is maneuvered onto his cot. Hosea waits for everyone to disperse before he makes his way to Arthur’s tent. 

Hosea comes to stand behind Susan, leaning on his forearms on the back of her chair. Arthur’s shoulder is blown open, his face swollen and discolored. Hosea feels all of his own joints aching looking at the mess of Arthur’s body. He finds unusual relief in knowing that Arthur - as usual -likely won’t share the details of whatever happened to him. 

“It won’t look so bad once he’s cleaned up,” Susan says, and Hosea knows it’s all she can say. She sounds unusually gentle, alarmingly so.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” Hosea says. He tries not to look at the photograph Arthur has wedged into the wagon boards above his cot, not wanting to see the younger eyes of Dutch and himself looking back at him. They would be twice as disturbed as Hosea is now.

“He’ll be alright. He always is.” 

“Relying on Arthur always being alright is how he got into this mess,” Hosea says. He moves to kneel at the edge of Arthur’s cot and brush his hair from his weary face. There are a hundred assurances Hosea could offer his shallow-breathing form, but instead he wipes the dirt from his eyes and straightens up. Susan squeezes his arm as he rises to his feet. 

Charles gently raps his knuckles on the wagon Arthur sleeps against. 

“Do you mind?” Charles asks. 

“No, of course not,” Susan says. Charles nods at them both and sits down on the trunk at the end of Arthur’s cot, leaning against the wagon.

“I’ll get him cleaned up when he has the strength for it,” Charles offers quietly. Susan nods. 

“I’m gonna talk to Dutch,” Hosea says, not hiding any of the frustration in his voice. Susan gives him a knowing look and sighs. Hosea pats Charles on the shoulder as he leaves. 

Hosea pushes aside the canvas of Dutch’s tent without knocking at the tentpole. Dutch looks up from where he has his head in his hands, sitting on the edge of his cot. 

“Hosea, I don’t wanna hear - “ Dutch starts. Hosea hauls Dutch up by his arm and looks him in the eye. Dutch looks entirely startled.

“Your foolishness is going to get someone killed, Dutch,” Hosea says, keeping his voice low but firm, ignoring the glassy fear in Dutch’s eyes. “Just because Arthur made it this time don’t mean he will next time.” 

“How was I supposed to know - “

“Because I told you. If you want to go and get yourself killed, or turned in, or God knows what else, then that's your call. But you can't put Arthur on the line like this. Or John, or me, or anyone else." 

"Hosea, I didn't know. Micah - "

"This ain't about Micah. It's about you, and it's about Arthur. He doubted this just like I did, but he still trusted you. That’s what he does, even when he shouldn’t. And now he's - you ain't even seen him, Dutch, but he's probably wishing he was dead, if he can wish at all."

“Hosea, I hate what happened, I do. But he’s strong and - “

“He’s not strong enough for you to keep doing this to him,” Hosea says. “If you can’t think, then you need to listen.” 

Hosea turns to leave Dutch’s tent, feeling Dutch reach for him and miss as he goes, hearing him inhale to call out but saying nothing. He pushes the tent flaps aside and steps out into the night, mercifully cool air still summoning a cough.

+++

Arthur spends days laid up, grumbling when anyone tries to help him. 

“If he’s awake enough to fight us then he’s doing alright,” Charles tells Hosea. Hosea laughs about it - his first sincere laugh in some time. It feels wrong in his chest.

Hosea stays in camp as much as he can, helping the girls with their chores, shoving Bill and Sean around to get them to work, reading the same newspapers again and again. He helps Jack with his reading, plays dominoes with Abigail when Jack decides he has no desire to learn to play. The tired, worried looks he exchanges with Miss Grimshaw are shared across what feels like newly level ground. 

Dutch keeps to his tent, when he isn’t staring out over the water. Hosea makes no effort to speak to him, and Dutch does no more than watch Hosea blankly from wherever he sits. 

+++

Unable to sleep, Hosea asks Lenny for his guard shift, but Lenny insists on going himself. Hosea sits down at the fire, whittles at a too-wet piece of wood in the dark. 

Behind him, Arthur coughs in his sleep. It's not the first time - Hosea was listening to it long before the O’Driscolls got Arthur, though since then it has only gotten worse. Hosea stares into the fire, watches the logs crackle white like bones in the lowering flames. He sighs, and his own chest rattles at the tail of his exhale.

Canvas shuffles behind him and - knowing that it’s Dutch - Hosea doesn’t turn around. He listens to Dutch’s footsteps, hears them pause, and after a long moment he hears the rickety crate in Arthur’s tent creak. Hosea waits a long moment and finally glances over his shoulder to see Dutch sitting beside Arthur’s cot, looking small and sorry in the lanternlight. He turns away again, allowing Dutch his privacy.

Hosea watches the fire, listening to the fish leaping in the lake, thinking too much about things too long ago. After some time he hears Dutch rise from the creaking crate and start back to his tent. 

“Hey, Dutch,” Hosea says as Dutch passes by. Dutch pauses.

"What's got you up, old girl?" Dutch asks softly, sitting down next to Hosea on the log. An apology, Hosea thinks, feeling weary with disappointment. 

"Not sure. Too many thoughts, probably. What about you?" 

“Bad dreams,” Dutch says. Hosea nods, wondering for a moment if Dutch will continue, if he might tell him - like he used to - what he had dreamed up that was bad enough to rouse him. But Dutch says nothing, just knocks his knee into Hosea’s. Maybe the dreams were too bad to share them aloud. Hosea leans into him, barely, though it feels incorrect. 

"Arthur's got that cough," Hosea says. 

"I know. I been hearing it. Don’t think I ain’t heard you whistling, too.”

“Well, I’m sick, Dutch,” Hosea says. 

“I know. The warm weather doesn’t help?”

“Not with how wet it is,” Hosea says. Dutch sighs. “We’ve gotta get outta here.”

“I know. I’m working on it. We all are - remember that. How are things on your end?”

“Not good,” Hosea says. “You know how plantation families are. A whole lotta talk and bravado. We’d be better off just getting gone, Dutch.”

“Yeah. I know. But we can’t do that yet.”

“So you keep saying,” Hosea says. He shouldn’t be so hard on Dutch, he thinks. It won’t change anything, won’t bring back any of Dutch’s confidence in him. Dutch is drifting, and he’s far from Hosea’s reach. 

“I can’t do this without you,” Dutch says.

“You are doing it without me. That’s the problem.”

“It don’t have to be that way. Stick with me, Hosea. I need you.” 

“I know,” Hosea says, his voice barely scraping out of this throat.

+++

The days stay hot and slow, and Arthur starts moving around again. He spends days with Kieran, helping with the horses, and spends the evenings sitting quietly with Charles. In simpler times Hosea and Dutch would have talked about it and teased him for it, but Dutch doesn’t seem to notice, nor does he spend much time talking to Hosea.

When Arthur comes to sit with Hosea, he brings his familiar silence, talks about the books he’s read while being laid up. Hosea is happy to listen, but unhappy to see the weariness in Arthur’s face as he talks. He startles easily, and his face falls each time he realizes himself. 

Hosea resents how short his temper has become. His patience runs thin too often, though he supposes in some cases it may be deserved. Kicking Sean around is to be expected - the boy is a good worker when he remembers to do it, but he rarely remembers. Micah is wise enough to make himself scarce after enough altercations with Charles and Hosea. But Hosea finds himself snapping too often at the others, and feeling silently sorry for it each time. He tries to occupy himself with books and work, feeling unsatisfied by it all.

Hosea pulls his pistol on Bill, and he feels sickeningly satisfied with himself before a wave of odd embarrassment sets in. Bill bumbles off like a bear in spring, looking drunkenly terrified. Hosea holsters his pistol, reeling with instincts he has scarcely felt in decades. 

He finds himself suggesting more often, in as many words as he can manage, that people leave. He knows they won’t, not yet, but he can plant the seeds, prepare them to leave when the time finally comes that there’s no other choice. He feels rotten for it, knowing Dutch will surely catch wind of it. 

+++

The sun is barely coming through the morning haze as Hosea rises, listening to the camp waking up. He 

Bill and Sean are nowhere to be found, the campfire unusually quiet, and Hosea regrets his nagging when he hears that they went into town with Micah. Hosea putters around camp, nervously missing Sean’s lazy chattering. His stomach churns when he hears Dutch send Arthur into town after them - to make sure all is well, that they don’t need help. So Dutch’s trust is in the air again. Hosea tries not to think of what will determine where it lands. 

Hosea busies himself with chores. Susan asks him to play cards, but he declines, feeling like his mind is as foggy as the air. 

“Hosea,” Abigail asks softly, enough to alarm him. Hosea looks up from the dish he’s washing. “You seen Jack?”

“Not since this morning,” Hosea says. His heart rattles around in his chest like a rabbit in a trap. 

“I thought he was with Arthur, but Arthur’s gone,” Abigail says, her voice starting to warble. Hosea dries his hands. “Hosea, I hate to worry you, but - well I’ve been asking around camp, nobody’s seen him, folks are starting to worry too, and that’s got me worrying. Something ain’t right.“

“Mister Matthews, Miss Roberts - “ Kieran’s voice comes from behind them, his peculiar face is distorted with concern. “Couldn’t help but overhear. I saw some - some men come riding through here, round about a few hours ago. Looked like Braithwaites if I hat to guess, but I ain’t certain - “

Abigail huffs a panicked breath and gathers her skirts, running off to Dutch. He hears her voice, shaking and panicked and rising above the camp. Kieran is still talking, trying to tell Hosea all he can but nervously talking himself in circles. Hosea’s mouth is dry. He turns to follow Abigail without a word to Kieran, tells Dutch what Kieran just told him. 

“Fellas,” Bill’s voice comes calling. Arthur is following him, without Micah or Sean. The camp falls silent, waiting for Bill to speak. “Sean’s dead. He - "

“God damn it,” Hosea breathes. He feels a freezing tightness in his shoulders. 

“We got bigger things to worry about,” Dutch calls to them. Arthur trots over to them, his face lining with worry. “Seems the Braithwaites have gone and snatched up little Jack.”

“We’ll get him back,” Hosea says. He puts a hand on Abigail’s back, finds John’s frightened face looking between them both. Dutch shakes his head and turns to get his rifle from his tent.

Jack is nowhere to be found in the Braithwaite house, and Catherine Braithwaite tells them that Jack should be in Saint Denis, under the care of one Angelo Bronte. Hosea feels nothing under his heavy anger and roiling fear as the woman wails over her own fallen sons, as they leave her on the steps of her burning home. 

The Braithwaite manor looks much better in flames, Hosea thinks. Sean would appreciate it, for all the effort he put into keeping himself from spitting on her floors.

John and Dutch rant over one another as they ride back to camp. Hosea lets them, rides alongside Arthur and his frustrated silence. He thinks about Sean, telling himself that there will be time to grieve later, that Jack is still somewhere to be found.

They return to camp to find Kieran looking entirely disturbed and Micah reclining lazily at the table. The others approach the men nervously, eyes filled with fear and worry. Abigail runs to Hosea before he dismounts, asking him question after question, her hair falling loose from its tie. Hosea brushes her hair from her face, squeezes her shaking hand. 

“They said he’s in Saint Denis,” Hosea says. 

“Who said?”

“The Braithwaites - “ Hosea says. Dutch comes to stand at Hosea’s side. 

"We’re gonna go get him, Abigail,” Dutch says. “We gotta make a plan first. For now, try and rest. Miss Grimshaw! Could you please start some coffee?” 

The others dwindle away, busying themselves or sitting worriedly on their bedrolls in silence. John chews his lips, standing with Hosea and Abigail, and Hosea squeezes them each on the arm as he walks away. He shoos Micah from the table, not bothering to watch where he scurries off to. 

Dutch is standing with one foot on a crate, cleaning a gun in stiff, frustrated movements. Hosea taps his elbow as he approaches, and Dutch jumps. 

“Sorry,” Hosea says. 

“How deranged can a person be to steal a _boy?_ ” Dutch asks. Wickedness has always baffled Dutch, somehow, for all his proximity to it. Now, Hosea finds it disturbing.

“We’ll get him,” Hosea says. “For now, we need to…just keep John calm. And Abigail.”

“John’s doing fine,” Dutch says. “Hell, I’m awful proud of him for not acting rashly. It’s what I would have done.”

“I know,” Hosea says, and Dutch snorts a laugh. 

Miss Grimshaw brings them coffee, and Dutch holsters his guns and sits down to drink it. They talk softly about their plans, and Arthur and John come and go from the conversation as they pass by Dutch’s tent. The sky is lightening over the trees - a long night becoming a longer day. 

It’s a dire situation, surely. But it’s more natural than anything with Dutch has felt in some time. Fighting alongside him again - something Hosea has hardly done since Blackwater - had felt normal, like the way things were in some distant time before. Dutch’s eyes are clear, grounded, and familiar - more than they have been in many months and miles.

Hosea tries not to think about it.

As the sun comes over the trees, Dutch and Hosea migrate to the table and the boys join them. John bounces his leg enough to shake the tabletop. Arthur looks at him more softly than he has in years as he kicks John’s foot to still his bouncing knee. 

Dutch lays out the plan quietly - he'll take the boys to Saint Denis to look for whoever Angelo Bronte may be, and Hosea will stay to hold down camp. 

Lenny shouts to announce to the arrival of two Pinkerton agents - the very same that have been tailing them since Blackwater. It hardly surprises Hosea. Dutch stays seated, and Hosea hears a fear in Dutch’s voice that he doubts anyone else would recognize. 

They offer to let Dutch turn himself in, in exchange for everyone else. A foolish deal they’ve all heard too many stories of - accomplices are left to go free, until the law meets a dry spell and appears on a homestead with a small army. Dutch plays as if he’ll go with them, then refuses. Hosea swallows an ugly feeling that rises in his throat.

When no Pinkertons emerge from the trees to gun them all down, Hosea is surprised. Agents Milton and Ross leave, either unprepared to shoot their way out or not willing to be responsible for killing a dozen, women included.

Hosea hates to feel his hands shaking as they leave. Arthur suggests moving to some place closer to Saint Denis, and Dutch calls for everyone to start packing. Hosea numbly arranges his things, thinking only of Dutch’s daydreams to keep his joints moving.

+++

Hosea still can’t blow the smoky smell of the Braithwaite manor’s demise from his nose, miles away in an old house at Shady Belle. There’s something uniquely rancid in it, some aching reminder of Braithwaite rottenness. He can hear Dutch pacing upstairs, a strange and foreign sound after all these years but still unmistakably Dutch. The soft and muffled voices of Arthur and Abigail and John come from somewhere outside, the urgent hushed tones of children trying to avoid trouble slipping through their tired adult voices. Hosea feels as if he should be outside, worrying with them. 

Hosea blows his nose again and still smells smoke. He picks himself up off the creaky cot, his body aching as much as the wooden frame below him. The floorboards creaking under his feet as he makes his way through the house turns his stomach. Ghosts of so many footsteps before him, he thinks as he starts up the stairs, and he’s not so far from joining them. He’d like to wear down some floorboards of his own before then, if he could be so lucky. 

He knocks at Dutch’s door. The pacing stops.

“Hosea?” Dutch’s voice comes. 

“Yeah,” Hosea pushes open the door.

“You don’t have to knock.”

“Could hear you pacing from downstairs,” Hosea says. He looks around for Molly, sees no sign of her. 

“Could you? Hm.” 

“You okay?”

“Thinking about Jack.” 

“We all are. And we’ll get him back, we already know that. What else?” Hosea moves to sit down on the mattress, sees a rusty bloodstain seeping through it. He perches on the footboard instead. 

“I keep thinking…” Dutch sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “I keep thinking maybe I should have just gone with Milton.”

“And let him hang you?” Hosea asks. A humble sentiment unusual for Dutch, though not unbecoming. Hosea wonders if Dutch's age has finally begun catching up to him.

“Yeah. Let you all run off, left you with the boys and them. You would’ve been fine without me. You ain’t…you ain’t like me. You’d be fine alone."

“Sure. And then a year from now, or five, or ten, they’d be back on our doorsteps for us. It hardly makes a difference,” Hosea says, though as he says it he finds himself entertaining some desperate fantasy that turns his stomach as much as it soothes him. He looks back at Dutch, prays that Dutch can’t see it in his face, but Dutch isn’t looking at him.

“Yeah. You’re right,” Dutch says. 

“If I’m gonna die, I’d rather do it with you. You know that. Don’t go giving up now, Dutch,” Hosea says. “Or at least wait until we’ve got Jack back.”

“The boys and I are going into Saint Denis tomorrow,” Dutch tells him, as if they hadn’t made that plan together. "We’re gonna figure it out.”

“It’ll all be okay, Dutch. We’ll get out of this.”

“I know. And then we’ll get out of everything else. I mean it, Hosea, we’ll settle down for you."

“For us,” Hosea says absently. "Quit worrying and try to rest. People need you well.” 

“Are _you_ okay?” 

“I’m fine. Same as ever.” 

“That ain’t fine. And I’ve heard you coughing still."

“It’s as fine as it can get, especially in a place like this,” Hosea says. Dutch sighs and collapses onto the bed. Hosea grimaces at the dust that flies up in the candlelight. 

“You know, if you wanted…” Dutch trails off, turns his head to look at Hosea, brows furrowed. Hosea waits, and Dutch doesn’t finish, but Hosea doesn’t mind. 

“Get some rest,” Hosea says. 

“Yeah. You too, Hosea,” Dutch says. 

Hosea watches him a moment, and Dutch watches back with an expression rendered unfamiliar by time’s passing. It’s nice - almost, if it weren’t for the circumstances - to have something to fret together over something that can so likely be resolved, something that doesn’t seem so doomed. Hosea nods and steps out, closing the door behind him and returning to his room, alone.

+++

Days pass, each one feeling at once too long and too short, always feeling like the day before. Hosea rises with the sun, stiff and pained and coughing, and discovers again and again that hot coffee on a sticky Lemoyne morning is uniquely miserable. Kieran tries to apologize to Abigail for letting Jack get snatched up, for not raising an alarm, that he truly didn’t know. When he finally accepts that Abigail doesn’t blame him, he takes to apologizing to Hosea. Hosea listens to him each time, and insists he has no need to keep apologizing. 

On the fourth day, Hosea manages to rope Abigail into a few games of dominoes, and - even in her distracted nervousness - she bests him twice. 

The sun sets, the air stays heavy and warm, and the frogs are deafening. Hosea stands by the swamp, watches the eyes of the gators gleaming in the low light from the camp. 

Dutch comes back with the boys and with Jack, who runs into his mother’s arms, then promptly wriggles out and runs to Hosea. Hosea laughs, holds him tight, thinking that Jack feels taller - but ever more vulnerable - than the last time he’d held him so. Jack squeezes out of Hosea’s grasp and runs back to Abigail, hanging onto her skirt. 

Hosea thanks John and Arthur, who look more at peace with each other than they have in years. Dutch pulls him away excitedly, overflowing with some rambling about Angelo Bronte and tropical islands and money. The relief is getting to him, Hosea thinks, he’s just delirious with excitement. Hosea lets it be, listens to Dutch talk about some garden party they’ve been invited to by Bronte at the mayor’s residence.

He doesn’t trust it, despite Dutch’s beaming. He bites back the desire to tell Dutch that surely this Bronte character could not be that impressed with him or - God forbid it went so far - with his thoughts on Dante. The least he can do is go along with it and save the arguing for later.

Dutch’s rambling fades and he sits in thoughtful silence. Hosea watches the others move around the fire, singing and drinking. He ought to go join them, but there’s time for that later. He feels lighter than he has in months, and Dutch feels familiar beside him again. 

“I’m real proud of John,” Dutch says. “He may have a chance yet, with how he carried himself in all this. I’d hazard to say that he’d do better in this world than the rest of us.”

“Maybe so,” Hosea says. 

“It almost worries me,” Dutch says.

“How? We raised him well, you should be relieved.”

“He…” Dutch sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, taking a long drink. Hosea waits. “I don’t want him thinking _we_ ain’t his family just as much as them.”

Hosea feels his brow furrow, sees Dutch’s face darken as he notices it. He sees an old fear playing over Dutch’s face.

“Well, he’s a grown man. God knows this is no place to raise a boy, either. Dutch, I’d be sorry but proud if he found some better situation for them all.” 

“I know,” Dutch says, irritation lacing his voice. Hosea shakes his head. 

“I wouldn’t worry, Dutch.”

“First time for everything,” Dutch says. Hosea sighs and gets up. “We’ll just get us somewhere to raise that boy proper.”

“One way or another,” Hosea says. Dutch sighs and hangs his head. Hosea watches him, then starts to turn to go. Dutch grabs his wrist. 

“Would you at least sit?” Dutch asks. Hosea feels his own mouth twitch and his eyes burn at the tone of Dutch’s voice. Hosea only nods, lowering himself back down to the crate next to Dutch. Dutch’s voice breaks as he thanks him for it, taking another long sip from his bottle.

They sit and watch the party, trading jokes, sharing relief in the return to normalcy through near-tragedy, until Molly seems to materialize and demand Dutch’s attention. Hosea offers her a glance and taps Dutch on the elbow again as he gets up to go, his knees creaking. 

He settles in at the fire, sitting between Lenny and Mary-Beth and tries not to listen to Molly’s ranting. Javier plays his guitar, though no one sings along now, happy to listen in warm and hopeful silence.

Hosea looks around, at the tired faces that he watched grow too old too quickly. John’s face marred and raw, Arthur worn and weathered, Tilly and Abigail more weary than young women should be. Jack is curled up, small and tired, between Abigail and Arthur, who talks quietly to a nervous Kieran. Jenny’s face should be among them, and Mac and Davey should be off riling Miss Grimshaw somewhere, Sean should be drunkenly singing and hanging on Arthur’s shoulder. 

The world is hard, Hosea knows, and especially in this life. But even for living rough and lawless, this strikes him as being unfair. 

He feels heavy, resentful remorse settle onto his shoulders as he gazes upon the patchwork family around him, resting along a path he helped to blaze.

+++

Dutch carries on talking about Bronte and his garden party. It strikes Hosea as a foolish venture and an undeserved return to form, but certainly a fun one. He agrees to go, if only because - as Hosea has always known - Dutch can be better reasoned with when Hosea plays along. Dutch’s eyes sparkle like they did before, though with more lines around them now. 

The garden party is even more upscale than Hosea expected, would have been impressive had they been younger men with less dire ambitions. Hosea talks to men and women wearing clothes worth more money he can imagine, somehow charms them, swallows his instincts and doesn’t pick their pockets.

Stealing from two or three guests could set them well on their way. Hosea wishes things were still so simple.

They leave the party early, crammed back into their carriage, Dutch trying to get a word in about the tips he’s gotten about potential scores. 

“Not now, dear, we’ve talked enough business for tonight,” Hosea finally says, bumping against his shoulder.

“You’re right, old girl,” Dutch says. Hosea feels himself still for a moment, swallowing some incoherent feeling, and pushes himself back into the conversation, avoiding Arthur’s eyes.

+++

The humidity at Shady Belle fills the air as if it’s trying to push them out, and Dutch acts as though he can feel it. He talks endlessly about a trolley station and a bank and Angelo Bronte, and Hosea doesn’t like any of it. He agrees to things reluctantly, making no secret of his displeasure.

Dutch sits down on the steps of the back porch, sighing.

“You act like you don’t trust me no more,” Dutch says. Hosea drops the front legs of his chair to the floor of the porch.

“You know that ain’t true,” Hosea says. 

“If we want out of here, we need money, Hosea. And to get money, I need you with me.”

“Where else would I be, Dutch?”

Dutch blinks in silence for a moment and sighs, holding his head in his hands. 

Hosea feels the same urgency in his bones that he sees radiating from Dutch day in and day out. If they don’t find some solution soon - something that can satisfy Dutch, if there is such a thing - he’ll resort to something as crazy as the ferry in Blackwater, and Hosea doesn’t have to guess at who would be killed in another ordeal of that kind. The gang is smaller, and Saint Denis is bigger, and the odds favor no one. 

“What about the bank?” Dutch asks. Hosea grimaces. 

“It’s a city bank.”

“Exactly. They wouldn’t expect nobody to rob a city bank.”

“That’s…fair, I suppose,” Hosea says. “I don’t like it. But I can check it out. Good luck selling the boys on it, though.” 

“That’s what I need you for,” Dutch says. Hosea shakes his head. “We’re gonna get out of here, Hosea, once and for all,” Dutch puffs his cigar smoke into the night. 

“If you say so.”

“I mean it. I’ll take care of this business with Bronte, you figure out the plan for the bank, then we all disappear."

Hosea wants to tell Dutch to stay away from Bronte, that he’s misplaced his trust in him, that it isn’t worth the risk. He opens his mouth to speak but the hopeful look on Dutch’s face stops him. It feels like the games they used to play - the theatrics and lightheartedness that seeped into their lives and eventually wore down the floodgates to let loose the next twenty-odd years. Dutch got what he wanted the first time, Hosea thinks, and all the times after that, and he supposes he will again. He was never good at dominoes, could never win at cards without cheating, but Dutch is good at finding games that he can win. 

+++

Arthur and some others go off to rob a riverboat under Trelawny’s guidance, as if there’s any luck left for them on boats, but they come back alive. 

Hosea takes Abigail and the girls into Saint Denis with him, listening to them speculate about where Kieran has disappeared to as they ride. They check out the bank, Hosea laden heavily with doubts. The security is lower than Hosea expected, and Karen tells him it seems ripe for a quick robbery to send them on their way - but they would have to be fast, and have a distraction. Nothing impossible.

Hosea doesn’t like it, but it’s safer than anything Dutch has gotten from Bronte. He poses it to Dutch as if it's impossible, and that sparkle returns to his dark eyes, and he runs with it, bouncing it back and forth with Hosea long into the night, pacing on the creaking balcony. It feels almost like the old days, if it weren’t for the panicked emptiness in Hosea’s chest and the weight on his shoulders, and the unfamiliarity of the familiar man before him. But he can forget all that, foolish as it may be, in the light of the enthused look on Dutch’s face and the possibility of an impending escape.

+++

Arthur trots up to Hosea where he stands sipping his coffee at the fire. 

“Hosea. You seen Kieran?” 

“Not in a few days,” Hosea says. Arthur looks concerned. Sadie pipes up from her seat at the fire.

“He’s an O’Driscoll,” she says. 

“He ain’t bad,” Arthur says, with a gentleness under the brunt of it that he seems to reserve for Sadie. “He wouldn’t run off or nothing.”

“I can’t imagine he would.”

“That’s what’s worrying me,” Arthur says. 

“He’ll turn up,” Hosea says. “The girls were wondering about him, too. 

Arthur bites his lips. 

“I’m gonna go look for him,” Arthur says. “Mrs. Adler, care to join me?”

“I’d rather eat my boots,” Sadie gets up from the fire and leaves. Hosea looks at Arthur and shrugs. 

Kieran does come back, mutilated corpse holding his own head in his hands, followed by an army of O’Driscolls that the gang miraculously fends off without any new losses. 

Hosea goes with Charles and Reverend Swanson to bury Kieran’s butchered body. He’s not cold when they bury him, the heat of the swamp and the sun giving him a sickly false warmth. Were his head still on his shoulders, they would have been reluctant to lay him in the earth. He can see Charles thinking the same as they lift Kieran’s body and lower it into his grave.

Kieran had deserved better in every sense - another silent thought shared with Charles and the Reverend. Charles offers him some barely-readable pleading look that Hosea wishes he could pretend not to see.

Hosea comes back to camp long after Charles and the Reverend. He finds Dutch nearly frothing as he raves about Colm O’Driscoll and his brutality and cruelty. He listens for a moment and walks on, going into the house with its creaking floorboards, taking his place on the balcony to wait for Dutch.

Hosea picks at the dirt under his nails with his knife. His ears are ringing from gunfire but he can still hear the men on the ground joking too much about the dozen O’Driscolls they’re burying. Hosea thinks that maybe he should leave the dirt in the creases of his hands as some tribute, since Kieran doesn’t have the privilege now of smoothing the dirt from his own palms. 

“Hosea,” Dutch greets him as he swings the door to the bedroom open, sounding surprised - there was a time that it would not have surprised him, Hosea thinks, but shoos it from his mind. “Those goddamn O’Driscolls. Won’t even leave a man alone when he’s done for. You been here long?"

“We can’t keep going like this, Dutch. We’re losing people. Good people - good _kids_.”

“You think I don’t see that, Hosea?” Dutch leans against the bannister. “We are _going_ to get out of here. Soon. Just not the way we planned before. We got new plans now, Hosea, good ones."

“I don’t care about Tahiti, Dutch. I’m just going where you’re going. It don’t have to be somewhere special.”

“Then you have even less grounds for complaining, my friend,” Dutch says. 

“But you ain’t going somewhere _real_ , Dutch. If you want me where you’re going you’ll listen to me,” Hosea snaps, “or don’t you want that? Because lately I’m not so sure.”

Dutch’s face falls, then darkens.

“Of course I want you there, Hosea, my brother.”

“It doesn’t show, Dutch. You’re not thinking." 

"I'm _always_ thinking," Dutch says. 

“Not about the things that matter. We could go, Dutch. We can take what we have and get lost, before we lose anybody else.” 

“We will, Hosea. We just need a little more. You know that. All I’m asking for from you is a little faith, a little trust. Don’t you remember how far that got us before?”

_Sure, it got us here_ , Hosea wants to say, but he bites it back. 

“All you need to do is trust me, Hosea. Trust _us_. You and me. We’ll get through this - like we always do - and be on our merry way.”

“Yeah, Dutch. I’ll see what I can do,” Hosea gets up, feels Dutch reach out for him and miss as he goes, not looking back. As he pushes through the bedroom door, Hosea feels his knees shake under the weight of some mournfulness far beyond him.

+++

Dutch sets off to Saint Denis with Arthur and Lenny, and Hosea watches them go with regret and dread hanging around his head like flies. He busies himself tidying things up in camp, watching John and Charles work on a wagon with Jack chattering as he watches them. He lays out a map, works out the details of robbing the bank with Abigail and Karen, sometimes with Bill and John. The girls have been checking the bank again and again, and they tell him endlessly that it’s virtually unguarded. 

Hosea knows the surroundings of the bank like the back of his hand now, even sees them in his sleep. It’s as good as it can possibly be, he thinks, given that very few things are good at all now.

Dutch returns, rattled, holding his head and complaining about a setup at the trolley station, cursing Bronte up and down.

“He set us _up,_ Hosea."

“I could’ve told you that,” Hosea says. 

“I don’t have time for your attitude, Hosea,” Dutch says. “I need to just…go lie down. My head is throbbing.”

Hosea follows him up the stairs, needling him with questions. Dutch answers them in scattered replies, telling him something about a streetcar crash that sounds like something from another lifetime. He slips into his room and closes the door. Hosea swallows his frustration, coughing as he sighs. 

Lenny gently interrupts Hosea from the paper he’s failing to read and asks him to take a walk. Hosea agrees, dropping his chair back onto four legs and standing stiffly. Lenny leads him in silence to the back end of the house, behind one of the decrepit mossy sheds. Arthur is crouched there, glowing gold around the edges in the setting sun, his head in one hand and a cigarette in the other. 

“Did Dutch tell you what happened?” Arthur asks. He takes a drag from the cigarette stubbornly, resisting a cough as he does it. He stands up from his crouch and leans tiredly against the sagging shed wall. His clothes are dirty, his posture heavy. 

“He did. It sounds bad and I’m sure it’ll sound worse when you tell me,” Hosea says, thinking of the dazed look in Dutch’s dark eyes.

“It was a stupid plan, and he should have known,” Arthur says. Lenny nods, and Arthur meets his eyes. “And he shouldn’t have taken you along. You’re a good kid, Lenny, but he shouldn’t have taken you. Not for something risky like that, when you don’t know what he’s - “

“It’s fine, Arthur. I survived. And I’ve been through worse,” Lenny says, gently but leaving no room to argue. His young eyes shine like amber in the sunlight.

“He hit his head, Hosea. Real bad. Did he tell you that?” Arthur asks. 

“He said it was bothering him,” Hosea says. 

“It was bad, Hosea,” Arthur says. “He ain’t right. And now he’s probably looking to go after Bronte - “

“I know. He was raving about it.”

“It’s a bad idea, Hosea. This ain’t our turf, it ain’t our way, it ain’t what we do.”

“I know,” Hosea says. The sadness in his own voice is too heavy for comfort. 

“And he keeps talking about Tahiti,” Lenny says.

“We can’t go to Tahiti, Hosea,” Arthur says, “everyone knows that but him.” 

“I know. We’re not going to Tahiti, that’s just…you know how he is."

“Sure. Tahiti is just like _California_. We need a different plan,” Arthur says. He looks weary, an unfamiliar fear and frustration painting his face. 

“If there’s one thing he’s right about it’s that we need one more score, unfortunate as that may be,” Hosea says. That much has become clear, whether for Dutch’s financial or emotional security. Arthur groans. 

“Not you too, Hosea, I - “

“We’re not going to Tahiti. I’m sure even he knows that, in whatever mind he has left. We get some more money, we get lost somewhere up north, maybe, and we put all this behind us.”

“How much money we got, Hosea? Do you even know?” Arthur asks. Lenny watches him with concern knitting his eyebrows together, watching Arthur say the things in his seniority that Lenny clearly wants to but could never express.

“Not quite. I know it ain’t enough,” Hosea says. He thinks of the chest, of the extra stash Dutch keeps now. “If we get ourselves lost - lost somewhere safe, that is - and wait for this new age to come in and sweep away these lives with it…I think we could make it. Together, I mean. You all could do it, even once I’m gone.”

“Hosea - “

“Listen, both of you. If this doesn’t work out…make your plans, keep your feet under you. And you two need to be ready to go, if it comes to that."

Arthur blinks hard, giving Hosea a rare moment of eye contact, looking as if he's understanding something that eludes Hosea's awareness entirely. 

"Alright, Hosea," Arthur says. Lenny nods. 

+++

Hosea sits on a crate at the side of the bed in Dutch's room. There was a time that Dutch and Hosea would have relished in the privacy that Shady Belle offered, in having a private room and a bed - they would have laughed about it like it was a secret, though it wouldn't be, even if it was only to read and sleep - but that was before. It’s long past them, even if Molly is no longer hanging at Dutch's side.

He hates the room, hates that Dutch can ignore the blood in it, hates how it all reminds him of how far they've strayed. Dutch is laying across the foot of the bed in exasperated silence. His dark eyes watch something distant. 

“You okay, Dutch?" Hosea asks. Dutch blinks himself back into the room. 

"What?” 

“Are you okay? How’s your head?” 

“Yeah. I’m fine. It’s fine.”

"What are you thinking about?" Hosea asks again. Dutch watches him, his eyes falling over Hosea like something heavy and dirty, like the Lemoyne air.

"Nothing," Dutch says. "Just ideas.” 

Hosea remembers a night beneath a peaceful sky when Dutch had looked over at him with so much fondness and told him _I would trust you to get me out of Hell itself._ Hosea - perhaps foolishly - had not expected Dutch to be the one to get them there. 

"I'll leave you to it, then," Hosea says. He gets up to go and Dutch watches him, though with none of the tenderness Hosea is accustomed to in even the hardest of moments. 

Hosea leaves and closes the door to the bedroom, bites his lip and sighs. He starts for the stairs, the floor creaking under him in a sickening way. He hates the house, hates the way it creaks, longs for solid earth or floorboards to break in on his own.

"Hosea?" Abigail's voice comes softly through her broken bedroom wall. "Is that you?" 

"Yes, my dear?" Hosea steps across the creaking floor and opens the door. Abigail is perched in the open windowsill, sewing up some ragged shirt that looks like one of Arthur's. Hosea sits down in a chair and rests his elbows on his knees.

"I hate to have to ask it, but how's Dutch?" Abigail asks softly. 

Hosea looks over her face. She looks further beyond her years than she deserves. 

"I don't know," Hosea says. 

"You can tell me, Hosea," Abigail says. "John and Arthur can’t keep secrets, but they don’t know much, either. I'd rather know the whole truth."

Hosea sighs, because he doesn't know. 

“He's...well, you know. Do you have a plan?” Hosea asks. Abigail looks at him and purses her lips, casts her eyes back down to her sewing. 

"Is it coming to that?" Abigail asks. 

Hosea says nothing. Abigail sighs. 

“No. Well, yes and no,” Abigail says. She focuses on her sewing but Hosea sees her nick herself with the needle. “John won’t make plans, but he knows he should. I figure if…if I have to go without him then I will.”

"Are you ready for that?" 

"For now."

“I’m sorry he’s not better, Abigail.” 

“It ain’t like it’s your fault. I’ve done fine without him before.”

“You had us before.”

“And before you all I had nobody. At least this time I’ll have Jack. Don’t worry about me, Hosea.”

“You’re right. But I gotta worry, you know that,” he says. He stands up and pats her arm and she takes his hand. He looks down at her, waiting for her to say something, but she gives him a soft smile and releases his hand with a squeeze. He closes the door behind him as he goes, glancing at Dutch’s door again before he goes down the stairs.

+++

The air is unusually cool, and the smoke from Dutch’s cigar smells almost pleasant again. Hosea feels himself wearing thin arguing with Dutch over the Bronte situation. Hitting his head made him more stubborn, Hosea thinks. Dutch pauses to puff on his cigar. 

“So you’re saying we can’t rob the bank if he’s here,” Dutch says, a flat and knowing question.

“That’s what I’m saying, yes. Not that we should start a war with the man - because that’s all that would happen if you went after him.”

“Then what do you suggest we do, Hosea?” Dutch asks, as if it’s somehow Hosea’s fault. 

“Leave the bank alone. We go somewhere else with what we’ve got. We’ll be fine, Dutch. Everyone knows it. We’ve been - are going through worse than whatever could happen to us if we just left.” 

“Always ready to lay down and die, aren’t you?”

Hosea sighs and lets Dutch ramble, not listening to anything, knowing he’s heard it all already, that Dutch is on a ledge Hosea can’t talk him down from. Dutch pauses in his ranting about what Angelo Bronte deserves and leans over the balcony to call for Arthur again. 

“Just one second, Dutch,” Arthur calls back, for the third time in the last hour.

“You don’t have to bring him into this,” Hosea complains. Dutch scowls. 

“We can’t do this without him.”

“If he doesn’t wanna then you better listen to him.” 

“Listen to _you,_ you mean,” Dutch says. Hosea sighs, coughs, and watches Dutch’s face go from frustration to veiled, familiar concern. “I know you two like to go up against me together.”

“I don’t _like_ to, you difficult fool. What do you take me for?” 

Dutch doesn’t answer, just leans against the railing. Hosea leans back in his chair, listening to Arthur greet the girls downstairs and start stomping up the steps. Hosea’s heart pounds heavily in his fingertips. Arthur comes out to the balcony cautiously, his mouth set into a nervous line. His eyes flicker as he listens to them argue, gives Hosea an apologetic, worried glance as he reluctantly agrees with Dutch that something needs to be done about Bronte.

Hosea should have known, he thinks as he watches Arthur follow Dutch out of the room and down the stairs. He sits back down and tips his head against the column behind him, listening to Dutch’s voice coming from below as he readies to leave.

+++

Hosea stares into the fire, watching the heat course through the embers. He can hear things moving in the darkness of the swamp, thinking of a time when it would have thrilled him to be so close to such wild things. He tries to straighten up in his seat, resenting how tired his body is. 

Out of view of the fire, he hears Arthur announce himself to Sadie as he rides in. Hosea listens to Arthur talk quietly to his horse, offers a nod as Arthur emerges from the shadows. Even in the firelight he looks clean, newly bathed and newly tired.

"Hosea?" Arthur sits down next to him at the fire.

"Yes, Arthur?" Hosea turns to him. Even in the low flickering light Arthur looks tired. Everything about him looks tired. There was a time when Hosea would have been able to put an arm around Arthur’s shoulders and pull him close, a time when Arthur would have leaned on him, but Arthur's shoulders have long been too broad and his heart has long been too tired, and Hosea’s heart stings for a moment remembering. He puts a hand on Arthur’s arm.

"I'm sorry for being so disagreeable lately," Arthur says.

"Me too," Hosea says. “Dare I ask how you’re doing?” 

Arthur laughs softly.

“Not so well. Dutch is…I can’t even talk about that right now, Hosea,” Arthur says, with a tight panic that reminds Hosea of the panic in John’s voice when he had tried to talk about Blackwater.

“Sure,” Hosea says. He chokes down a glimmer of resentment for the way that Dutch has worn on them all. 

"Had me running around in a swamp for two days. You know how I feel about swamps. Dutch almost got us ate by some gator, some poor kid did get his leg ate…and Dutch…it don’t matter.” 

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Hosea says. Arthur sits in nervous silence.

"I..." Arthur starts. Hosea waits, doesn't look directly at his face while he stumbles over sounds. Arthur sighs and finally says, “I think I'm sick, Hosea." 

Hosea waits a moment, lets the words settle. 

"I know. Reckon the whole camp’s heard you coughing."

"I don't think it's something that's gonna get better," Arthur says. Hosea’s stomach goes cold.

"It's that way, sometimes. I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm not about to give you empty consolations, but try not to fret. I've been coughing like that since the day I was born, and only worse since then. And I’m still here.” 

Arthur sighs, shaky and tired. There's some great injustice in Arthur being afraid. Hosea has always hated seeing it. He puts his arm around Arthur's shoulders and pulls him close. Arthur - without hesitation - rests his head on Hosea's shoulder for a moment. He still feels like he did as a boy, though taller and broader and more weary.

"I'm sorry it's all come to this," Hosea says softly. Arthur sighs.

"Well, it's the life we chose. That’s what you’re always saying." 

“I suppose, Maybe it's what we deserve. I'm grateful I can take solace in knowing we gave you all we could." 

"Thank you, Hosea," Arthur says. Hosea squeezes his arm and leans back to look at him. "For everything. I really...thank you.” 

“I think it all would have been okay if Dutch hadn’t gotten distracted by that ferry job,” Hosea says. Arthur looks startled to hear him speak at all, let alone so frankly. “He might still have…well, you know, lost it like this, but we’d all be a lot better off if he’d never gotten the idea of pulling off something so grand. We’d still be okay somewhere, all of us.”

“There was no stopping him. You saw how he was, Hosea,” Arthur says after a long silence, his eyes glittering at Hosea in the firelight. He fiddles with the rope on his hat, rolling it between his fingers, an old habit that Hosea can’t move his eyes from. “And we wasn’t even on the boat with them."

“I know. But you can’t help thinking of it.”

“No, I guess not,” Arthur sighs. He sits up straight and lightly elbows Hosea. “This whole bank ordeal better not be like that bear you had us out chasing,” Arthur says lightly. 

“Have a little faith, Arthur.”

“Now you’re sounding like him.”

“I know.”

“Don’t,” Arthur says. Hosea nods and looks back to the shadowy balcony, only finding the glowing orange end of a cigar pulsing in the darkness. 

+++

Dutch proudly announces that Bronte is dead, as if he expects Hosea to share his satisfaction. He shrugs - to Dutch’s dismay - and goes to saddle his horse, to check the bank one more time. John lingers around him, saying nothing, smoking a cigarette. 

“You seen Arthur?” John finally asks. 

“No,” Hosea says. Arthur is rarely around camp anymore, and Hosea misses him. He didn’t come back after Dutch took him to go after Bronte. 

“You heading out?”

“Just into town.”

“Checking the bank again?” John asks. Hosea nods. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all. In fact, I’d feel better if you did.” 

“Alright,” John says. 

He pats Hosea on the back as he goes over to his horse. Hosea waits for him, and they ride out together. Once the house is out of sight, John clears his throat. Hosea looks over at him, at his still-raw face and tired eyes. 

“Dutch ain’t right, Hosea,” John says. Hosea hums. It hurts him to hear John say it, to hear the frustration in John’s voice. “He killed Bronte in a bad way. It weren’t normal. Nothing about it was normal, but especially not what he did.”

“You remember what I’ve told you,” Hosea says. John chews his lips. 

“I know.”

“Are you ready?” 

“Don’t think I ever really will be.”

“Be as ready as you can be, John. You got people depending on you.”

“I ain’t the only one. But I’m about tired of having everyone in my business like I don’t know what I gotta do.”

They share a silence as a man rides past them. Hosea waits a moment. 

“It ain’t you, John. Folks, well…you got something a lot of them want. It’s hard for folks to watch you risk throwing it away.”

John stares straight ahead, saying nothing. So he understands, Hosea thinks. If it will make any difference is another story, but it would be dishonest of Hosea to doubt him.

+++

It’s like trying to breathe air into tired lungs, every moment feeling like so many evenings Hosea has spent hiding his gasping for the chilly air that his lungs couldn’t hold. But for each of those nights there was a morning of easier breathing that would follow, and Hosea figures this is no different. The excitement about the job feels almost like the old days - or maybe it’s something he’s fooled himself into and gotten lost in. He tries not to think about it. 

The day comes closer, and Hosea watches Dutch chew his fingers as they look over the maps, again and again. They ride out together to check the bank, to check the trainyard where Hosea is planting the distraction. It makes him nervous to be so confident about something so risky.

“I’m proud you’re here,” Dutch tells Hosea once they leave the city streets. 

“Ain’t like I got much of a choice,” Hosea says, and it surprises even him to hear how toothless it sounds. 

“We’ll be fine,” Dutch says. He nods to himself, agreeing with his own words. “Long as you’re here. Give us a chance to get you a better place to die, at least.” 

“Very funny,” Hosea says. He feels his jaw clench and a flutter run down his back. He coughs.

“You okay?” 

“Sure,” Hosea says. 

+++

The night is all too still, and Hosea sits on the steps of the house, watching the camp attempt to rest. With morning light they’ll be riding into town, and then they’ll be on to greater things - or so the plan states. Hosea watches Abigail combing Jack’s hair and talking to him quietly, while John watches with a look of unusually easy thoughtfulness. Arthur is playing dominoes with Tilly, laughing occasionally. Lenny passes Hosea by with a nod and smile. 

A sudden rush of love and pride rises in Hosea’s chest, watching the others going about an evening in so much trust for one another. His eyes sting, and the firelight starts to swim in his vision, and he thinks of how far they have yet to go - less than before, but still a ways to be sure - before they can know any peace. Hosea lifts himself from the steps, swallowing hard, and goes into the house and makes his way up the creaking stairs. They sound less sickening under his feet than they have in the last few weeks.

“Dutch?” Hosea knocks at the bedroom door. The paint flakes under his knuckles. 

“Come in,” Dutch’s voice comes through the door. Hosea opens it, finds him alone, as he so often is now. Hosea can’t remember the last time he saw Molly for more than a moment. “You know you don’t have to knock.”

“Sure,” Hosea says. 

“Something wrong?” Dutch asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, book in hand. 

“No. I know you don’t sleep before jobs.” 

Dutch laughs softly. Hosea pulls up a chair to sit. 

“When this is done…” Hosea starts, and Dutch grimaces. “I ain’t doing this again, Dutch. We’re just going. Money or not.” 

“Are you that unhappy?” Dutch asks. Hosea furrows his brows. "What more do you want from me?”

"The _only_ thing I want from you is to know that if...when I'm gone that you'll be able to take care of them. The boys, and everyone else. I need to know that they'll be okay, if nothing else."

"Quit talking like that, Hosea. I'm not gonna entertain - "

"It's reality, Dutch."

"Do you think I won't take care of them?" 

"You haven't been." 

Dutch looks stung. 

"After all these years, you're doubting me? That I can't look out for a family _we_ built? Together, Hosea. We did that _together."_

 _"_ I know. And I need to know it will go on without me. I ain't got much time left, Dutch." 

Dutch's eyes go hard and frantic. It's far from a secret, but the first time it's been said so simply. 

"I'm trying, brother. I just need some time, and some money, and _you_ to have my back. Have a little faith," Dutch says. He lifts himself from the mattress and goes to stand on the balcony. 

"I'm trying," Hosea says softly. He watches Dutch look out over the camp. The stars are dim at Shady Belle, and the sky out the door seems empty. Dutch turns around, arms loosely crossed. 

“You know, Hosea. I’m real happy with what we’ve done. You and me, I mean. The boys…everyone. I don’t know what I’d do otherwise,” Dutch’s voice is soft, less rehearsed than Hosea has heard it in some time. “I wish things was better for us all.”

“You can make them better, Dutch. That’s what they’re waiting on,” Hosea says. Dutch sighs.

“I know. That ain’t what I wanna hear right now.” 

Hosea sighs. He gets up, his knees protesting as he does, and moves to lean against the railing next to Dutch. 

“I’m proud of us,” Hosea says. “Always have been. And I’m proud of all of them down there. We get to love a hell of a lot more than most folks do. I wouldn’t change a damn thing, except for maybe this mess we’ve gotten into.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Well, we’ll be out of it soon enough.”

“That we will.”

“We’ve gotten everything I could have wanted in this life, I reckon,” Hosea says, and Dutch’s face softens, and Hosea realizes how foreign it seems now. “We’re a lucky couple of bastards, to be sure."

“We certainly are. Let’s hope it holds out. You’re sure about tomorrow?”

“Sure as I can be.”

“If you ain’t, Hosea, we can…make a different plan.”

Hosea thinks for a second, his heart pounding knowing what he’s risking by thinking. There are no other options, and he’s sure of that. They rob the bank, take that risk, or spend more time wandering and looking for something to save them. Hosea feels the years sitting on his shoulders, feels the fatigue in his own face. 

“I’m as sure as I can be,” he says. They stand together, staring into nothing, sharing the somber finality of the moment. Things will be different tomorrow, and the day after that, and not quite like this again. Hosea elbows Dutch, holds out his hand to him. Dutch reaches across his own chest to shake it, squeezing Hosea’s fingers and holding his hand tight. 

“I’ll see you in the morning, old girl,” Dutch says. Hosea nods. 

“Sure."

The morning finds Hosea without having slept, and he finds Dutch pacing through the front of the house. Hosea places a cup of coffee in Dutch’s hand and unfurls the map again, going over the plan again. Dutch sounds doubtful, unusually frightened, and Hosea resists the desire to call it all off while Dutch is giving him the chance. But it will only be something else later, he knows better than to think otherwise after all these years.

Hosea claps John and Arthur on the shoulders as they head for their horses. Lenny tells Hosea that he has a book for Hosea to read, that he finished it last night when he couldn’t sleep.

“Almost done,” Dutch says. Hosea nods, squeezes Dutch’s fingers.

“See you,” Hosea says. Dutch chews his lip and nods back, and turns back to his horse.

Hosea and Abigail sneak into the trainyard with ease. The sun feels too bright, and the heat prickles under Hosea’s collar. 

“It must be normal for rich folks to get lost in here,” Hosea says. Abigail laughs. 

They find their way to the explosives that Hosea had asked Bill - looking most the part of a railroad worker - to set the day before. Just out of the way of harming anyone, it goes off without a hitch, leaving Hosea’s ears ringing and Abigail laughing with disbelief. Hosea coughs, and they start running the rest of the way out of the trainyard alongside a few startled workers. 

Abigail grabs Hosea’s arm, pulls him around the corner of some crates. 

“Pinkertons,” she says breathlessly. “Outside the gate."

Hosea glances around the corner, seeing the Pinkertons pacing the street outside the gate diligently in their ominous black garb. Hosea straightens up and grinds his teeth.

“No use running, Mister Matthews,” a nasally voice calls out. “We’ve got you surrounded. Make it easy for yourself, old timer.” 

Hosea turns to Abigail.

"Abigail, go," Hosea says. She stares at him in panic, her lip starting to tremble in that awful way Hosea has tried to clear from her face too many times. “Abigail. They're only looking for me. Remember what I said. Now, go." 

"Okay," she whispers, nodding. Hosea squeezes her elbow and pushes her to go. “Thank you, Hosea,” Abigail brushes her fingers against his arm as she turns, gathers her skirt and runs. Hosea feels a smile pull at his mouth. She was always brave, he thinks, more than any of the others likely know. He wants to call her back to tell her so, but tells himself she already knows.

Hosea steps around the corner on shaking knees, making his way to the gate with his hands up. He meets hard eyes in a marred face behind the barrel of a gun. He feels too many sets of hard eyes on him, prays they stay on him on and don't find Abigail. 

"Well, Mister Matthews. Agent Milton, Pinkerton Detective Agency, though I'm sure you remember that. I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting properly." 

"No, we haven't," Hosea says. 

"I hope you won't mind coming with us," Milton says. Hosea says nothing, lets Milton take him roughly by the arm. He smells too strongly of cologne. "On the way, I have a proposition for you, if you'd like to hear it." 

"I reckon you'll tell me anyway," Hosea says. Milton laughs, a vile sound if Hosea has ever heard one. He feels Milton take his guns as he hauls him down an alley.

"You're right about that," Milton says, and he shoulders through some of his men and pushes Hosea up into a wagon. Hosea sits down on the wooden plank and Milton sits across from him, his gun lazily pointed at him. 

"So, Mister Matthews, before we make our way to the Bank of Saint Denis to... _rendezvous_ with your gang, I'd like to make you an offer. It would save all of us a great deal of trouble should you accept it, seeing as I’m not making any deals with Dutch now."

Hosea says nothing. He finds himself distracted for a moment by the steadiness of his heart. 

“You’ll get me Dutch, today, and we'll let you go on and get lost. You can even take some of your...associates with you, if you like." 

Hosea knows his answer like he knows the sunrise, but he thinks on it still. He feels a sharp pang of guilt for his hesitation, feels a flare of anger that he has become so desperate. There's no winning - he dies now, or in a few weeks on the gallows, or years from now on some unsuspecting morning - if Milton were even being truthful. Hosea knows he’s not.

Hosea’s time has never truly been in his own hands.

"No," Hosea says. “I’ll pass."

"Well,” Milton turns to rap his knuckles on the side of the cart and it lurches into motion. He turns back to Hosea and smiles slightly. Hosea hates it. "Looks like it's all up to old Dutch now, doesn't it? I’m sure you’ll be enough to convince him. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this, I’ll admit.”

“Sure,” Hosea says, and he sits up a little straighter. Whatever Dutch does, however they decide to use Hosea, it won’t make any difference. Hosea is surprised that his heart stays so steady. 

“No speech?” Milton asks. He laughs to himself. “Should’ve known you wouldn’t be the talking type. I imagine a man like Mister van der Linde doesn’t let you get much of a word in, does he?”

Hosea says nothing. Milton keeps talking, and Hosea thinks of how cruel it is. He had always told the boys not to waste time killing an animal in a trap. He starts to worry after the boys, blinks it back, swallows it down. They’ll be fine, he tells himself, trying to keep his mind clear, he and Dutch had made sure of that. 

The city is a blur of colors and sounds, the sights that had been all so familiar and carefully studied suddenly seeming foreign and frightening. But he recognizes the bank, a hulking and too-ornate thing, and feels an old chill run down his spine.

The wagon jerks to a halt.

“You sure on that deal?” Milton asks, rising and hauling him out of the wagon. 

“Yeah,” Hosea says. 

Hosea hears Milton shouting into the bank, holding Hosea tightly by the back of his jacket. He doesn’t hear the words, doesn’t hear anything more than the tones of Dutch’s pitching voice from inside. It surprises him when Milton shoves him forward, and he realizes himself.

Hosea straightens up, turns back to Milton, his vision suddenly clear, and watches Milton fire his gun.

Bullets are small, hardly heavy in the palm of a hand, but the one in his chest weighs tons. It had been inevitable, he realizes, coming at him long before it had even left the chamber of Milton's gun. Perhaps he should have seen it coming, mapped out for him like every other part of his last twenty-odd years seemed to be. He never doubted that he would die, that he would likely be shot, though he wonders how he missed that it would have been like this, how he hadn’t seen it coming since a long night in a muddy town, decades before.

He wonders why he’s falling so slowly, given how heavy he feels. He thinks of the weight of his own lighter being dropped into his hand, of a twice-stolen purse in his pocket, the weight of Dutch on his chest, of a gun in his hand, of the boys asleep on his shoulders, of so many bodies carried in his arms, of Jack balanced on his hip. So much weight he’s carried. Surely he should hit the ground harder for it all.

He doesn’t feel himself meet the ground, just a rattle in his lungs in the suffocating wetness of Saint Denis, lying in the street he had walked so many times. 

Closing his eyes against the heavy numbness in his chest and the rushing silence in his ears, the sudden stillness of his body comes as naturally as the sunrise. He wishes only that he could see the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT'S IT FOLKS. that's the whole thing. thanks one hundred times for reading, i appreciate it SO much and i hope you enjoyed it. as always i love to hear thoughts, comments, whatever. this is probably the biggest thing i've ever written. 
> 
> there's more red dead fic coming soon, so stick around for that if you want. subscribe, or whatever. 
> 
> also i just wanna like...give a huge shoutout to the hosea in drag content that has popped up since i wrote this, [directly inspired](https://kenconffetti.tumblr.com/post/625120311903502337/hmm-wonder-who-put-those-hickeys-on-my-husband) or not. ;) 
> 
> additional massive shoutout to miranda and [selene](https://the-curious-couple-fanart.tumblr.com/) who have kept reminding me to work (and distracting me...miranda).
> 
> anyway, if you want to see more of me i've got a [main twitter](http://twitter.com/thehubbins) and a [fandom twitter](http://twitter.com/jukebxgrad) and all my other socials are linked in my bio.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope this is as fun to read as it was to write. 
> 
> i would love to hear anybody's thoughts on any of this. comments are much appreciated and will encourage me to suffer through editing everything else more efficiently.
> 
> if you wanna talk to me (please talk to me) i'm on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thehubbins) and sometimes [tumblr](http://hubbins.tumblr.com). and i have a red dead playlist.


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